


We Burned 'til the Morning

by LivingProof



Series: Sing Something for the Dark [2]
Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Aftermath of trauma, Alcohol Abuse, Angst for days, Barnum Angst, Barnum Worries, Charity Worries, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Male Friendship, Neither is Barnum, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Phillip Angst, Phillip Whump, Phillip's not doing too hot right now, Protective P. T. Barnum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-05-19 21:30:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 31,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19364428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivingProof/pseuds/LivingProof
Summary: In the wake of the Carlyles' disastrous decision to 'treat' their son, Barnum and Phillip each struggle to do the right thing. If only they could agree on what, exactly, that means.That might be the least of their worries, though, because Phillip definitely isn't making the best decisions himself lately. And maybe Barnum isn't either.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And we're back. As promised, the sequel. This will make more sense if you've read the first story, though you're welcome to start here. (But really, are you trying to say you don't want to go back for some Phillip whump? Who are you kidding?) 
> 
> As you can probably surmise from the tags, this is a rough road ahead for our characters. All of the themes mentioned will feature prominently, so choose wisely. 
> 
> And if all that hasn't scared you off, let's get on with the show. I do hope you enjoy the ride!

 

Were it a hangover, Phillip would count it among his worst.

 

He's hunched over a waste basin on the ornate Persian rug in the guest bedroom of the Barnum household, expelling what's left of the meager contents of his stomach, head throbbing in time with every movement. He would like nothing more than to return to his earlier, blissful state of unconsciousness, but at this point he knows it's futile to try.

 

Were this just another hangover, he would crawl back to bed after he'd finished, close the curtains against the watery sunlight on the way, pull the coverlet over his head and listen to the sound of his own breathing until he fell into a state of listlessness, regretting everything that had led him to this point of misery, but knowing with a worse feeling in his heart that _regret_ wouldn't stop him from doing it again.

 

As awful as his worst hangovers could be, Phillip has still spent the better part of a decade seeking refuge from the mess of his life in a bottle of whiskey, and though he is well aware any succor gained there will be ephemeral, he, like most, is a creature of habit.

 

But the rub of it all today, the irony that the part of him that isn't busy gagging can only laugh at, is that for once he hasn't done this to himself, has in fact been – if not completely abstaining – drinking with far more moderation since he joined PT Barnum's Menagerie and Circus. The even bigger irony, however, is that the circus, the place he loves, the people he would openly call family were he a braver man, is in fact the reason he feels so wretched right now.

 

Though that isn't quite right, and Phillip can hear PT's voice in his head protesting that it's not the circus that's gotten him into this predicament, not even anything Phillip's done (though he's not sure he would agree with that sliver of absolution). Instead, his current misery lays wholly at the feet of a society too narrow minded to extend understanding and compassion to anything beyond the small scope of what it considers _acceptable,_ and, more specifically, can be attributed to the cruelty and ignorance of the pair Barnum will only refer to as 'those people,' but whom Phillip must call his parents.

 

Whoever is to blame, though, Phillip is the one bearing the brunt of the consequences, and he spasms once more over the basin, fingers clutching at the wool fibers beneath him. He's so focused on that action, on keeping his brain from sloshing too much inside his skull when he moves, and not tipping forward into his own mess, that he doesn't hear Barnum approaching until the man has settled on the rug right beside him.

 

“Not feeling any better, I see,” PT says as he wraps a warm arm around Phillip's waist and palms the younger man's clammy forehead. Phillip groans in response, and though he considers shaking Barnum's grip loose he finds the contact far more soothing than he cares to admit.

 

“Poor thing,” Barnum adds, thumb rubbing against the cotton nightshirt over Phillip's ribs. Phillip aches to protest that he is in fact a grown man, not an ill child or an injured animal, but he lacks the ability to do much other than slump bonelessly against PT's solid figure.

 

Barnum lets him rest there for several minutes before Phillip feels the rumble in the other man's chest as he asks, “Are you finished?”

 

_With what?_ Phillip wants to ask in return. _With puking up what must be my stomach lining by now? With all of the bad decisions I've made that led me to this point? With my parents, and their high society, and every stifling expectation that's ever been used as a cudgel to beat me down? With your overbearing concern, and mother-henning, and infuriating kindne –_ but he stops that train of thought there. Barnum doesn't deserve any of it, and he instead focuses on the cool pressure of PT's fingers against his brow.

 

He nods once, gingerly, doesn't trust himself to speak without his voice breaking, though he supposes he could blame that on spending what feels like hours yakking up everything he's ever eaten or drank, and not the note in Barnum's voice that makes his eyes tingle and his throat burn for entirely different reasons.

 

“Alright then,” Barnum replies. “Why don't we get you back to bed?” He drops his hand from Phillip's forehead, and before the younger man can even register how he misses its presence, is gripping Phillip's elbow and pulling him to his feet.

 

Phillip's eyes open when he gets upright. That may have been a mistake, and the colorful paintings and red curtains framing the wide windows of the Barnums' guestroom start to swirl in his vision.

 

“Oh,” he mumbles as the room tilts and Barnum tightens his grip.

 

“We just got you up, Phillip, let's not go _right_ back down to the floor, hmm?” Barnum says lightly, and Phillip doesn't need to see the older man's face to know the small smile that will be tugging the corners of Barnum's mouth upwards.

 

“Mmhmm,” he replies as he presses his face into PT's shoulder. After a moment of that, they shuffle to the unmade bed where Phillip has idled most of his day, and Barnum eases him down to the rumpled sheets.

 

“I wonder if we ought to send for a doctor...” Barnum muses as he pulls up the linens, and amends himself as Phillip's eyes fly open and his whole body flinches. “Shit, Phillip, I'm sorry. I won't do that if you don't want me to.”

 

_I don't,_ Phillip would shout if the idea hadn't stolen the breath right from his lungs. He wonders if at some point that word won't make his heart stutter, his fingers clench into fists. “I'm fine,” he rasps.

 

Barnum sits on the edge of the bed. “Not hardly.” He sighs. “I confess I've no idea if your current state is a...ah...typical reaction to...ah...” Phillip marvels at the rare sight of the consummate showman PT Barnum unable to find the right words.

 

“Being drugged out of my mind?” He asks, less hoarse this time. “It's not too unusual.” Barnum's eyebrows rise, and Phillip stammers, “I...uh...some of my...I had friends who...partook in this sort of thing. When I was younger.” God, he's made enough terrible decisions in his life, he doesn't need Barnum to think he's indulged in that particular vice, too.

 

Barnum summons a weak smile. “Well, pity they aren't here to give us a little guidance, isn't it?”

 

“Pity they aren't here at all anymore,” Phillip responds before he realizes what he's saying. Barnum's eyes widen and his smile vanishes. “I...sorry,” Phillip adds.

 

Barnum shakes his head. “Don't be.” Phillip looks at hims until he drops his gaze and eyes the bedroom door. “Maybe you would feel better if we got a little food in you.” Phillip moans. “Some water, at least?” That idea churns Phillip's stomach too, but he has to give the other man _something,_ needs to wipe that look off his partner's face, so he nods.

 

“Wonderful!” PT beams at him and pats his knee through the covers. “I'll be right back.”

 

Phillip listens to the other man's footfalls across the room, the quiet creak as he pulls the door open. “You'll feel better soon enough, Phillip. I promise.”

 

_Liar,_ Phillip thinks but says nothing, just watches the shadows cast by the barren branches outside the windows creep across the room.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Phillip's visit is going decently enough. His father has said almost nothing throughout the course of the meal, but his mother has done her level best to keep the conversation going, primly 'oh, I see'-ing and 'is that so'-ing when he tells them about some of the less...unusual...members of the circus troupe, and the increasingly complimentary reviews from Mr. Bennett and the other regional papers.

 

So when his father looks up, fork hovering above his blancmange, as the heavy dining room door behind Phillip groans open, Phillip figures it's the footman bringing his father's post-meal cigar and thinks nothing of it until he feels the presence of someone looming over him.

 

He lays his utensils down with a light clink on the porcelain plate – fork tines up and knife blade in, handles at five o'clock, of course, a habit he cannot shake – and turns his head to regard the visitor.

 

Visitors, actually, and he shifts farther in his chair to take them all in: a tall, silver mustachioed man with a severe expression; a shorter, stout fellow, clean shaven and bespectacled; two lumbering men, whose broad shoulders and brawny builds remind him of the rougher roustabouts who work the docks near the circus lot.

 

“Gentlemen,” he says politely. The tall man looks past him to the far side of the table. Phillip follows that gaze to his father, who takes a sip of wine and nods before returning to his dessert. At that the man rests a hand on Phillip's shoulder, and his brown eyes meet Phillip's own.

 

“Phillip. May I call you Phillip?” He asks. Phillip wants to refuse him, shake that manicured hand from his shoulder and leap up, charge out of the room, but the meal has been going so _well._ If he departs after such a spectacle he will never get back inside this house, never get another chance to try to convince his parents that they have nothing to fear from the circus, that no one does, that it may in fact be a sign of better days to come if all these disparate, incredible people can come together to achieve something no one (except, perhaps, for one tall visionary with a predilection for long red coats) thought possible.

 

“Of course. And you are?”

 

The man's thin lips twitch upward under his mustache, but Phillip wouldn't call it a smile. “I'm Dr. Gilpin. I wonder if we might talk for a little while?”

 

Phillip stiffens and the other men lean in closer. He ogles the blunt fingers and the impassive gaze on the flat face of the man nearest him before looking at Gilpin again.

 

“My apologies, Dr. Gilpin, but I really must be departing shortly.” That mammoth hand comes to rest on the back of his chair.

 

“Phillip, your parents are quite concerned. I think we had best have that conversation now.” Phillip stands. Gilpin's hand slides off his shoulder and the brawny men shift to either side of him. The short man with glasses finally moves, adjusting his spectacles as he sets a black leather case down on the table. He deliberately flips open the clasps, and Phillip gapes at the thick glass and metal syringe he lifts from the gold silk-lined interior.

 

“I would prefer to do this in a civilized fashion. Wouldn't you?” Gilpin asks, looking down his aquiline nose at Phillip. The short man cradles the syringe in both hands and steps closer.

 

“I'll be leaving now, actually,” Phillip says with a confidence he doesn't feel.

 

Gilpin frowns and motions to his companions. “Very well.”

 

Phillip throws himself back as the nearest man reaches for him. The other grunt grabs at Phillip's arm, fists a hand in the back of his waistcoat. Phillip twists, smashes his elbow into the man's nose, feels something crunch. He lunges forward, shouldering one body out of his way, but he can't free himself from the scrum before a hand wraps around his neck and slams him to the table on his back, sending his plate and silverware skittering to the floor.

 

An orderly, _that's what they are, not laborers at all,_ appears above Phillip, blood dripping from his nostrils. He seizes Phillip's shoulder and wrist, forces his arm flat against the table. Phillip kicks out and his heel strikes something soft, but he can't dislodge the iron grip on his arm. He tears frantically with his free hand at the colossal fingers pressing into his throat hard enough that his vision is starting to dim.

 

Something captures that hand and pins it to the table above his head and it's flames and ashes again because he can't _breathe._ Fingers rip the cuff of his sleeve and he kicks again into open air, gasping. He wrenches his wrist back and forth, yanks his arm an inch off the table before hard, _sharp_ metal plunges into the inside of his elbow. He thrashes once, twice, and that steel clamp around his throat is going to _kill him_ there's _no air_ and then a coldness slides through his veins and sinks into his chest and he's not entirely sure if his arms are still attached to the rest of his body.

 

Phillip doesn't feel the orderlies relax their grip, only sputters for air as the hand on his throat falls away. _Why am I here_ and he rolls his head to see his mother, standing beside her upturned chair, shaking hands clasped in front of her mouth. It takes every ounce of effort he has left to arch his whirling head a few more inches _what's happening to me_ , cheek dragging against the finely-woven white tablecloth, to find his father. The elder Carlyle is leaning back in his chair _why did you do this to me,_ drinking his Bordeaux, as Phillip's world finally fades to gray.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

“I'm thinking about going in to the office later this afternoon,” Phillip tells Barnum over breakfast at the small table in the kitchen a few mornings later.

 

Barnum's jaw freezes just before his teeth sink into a piece of toast. He takes it out of his mouth, sets it back on his plate, and brushes crumbs from his fingers. “What?”

 

“I said, I'm planning on heading to the circus today,” Phillip says as he takes a swallow of coffee.

 

Barnum sputters. “What? The circus?”

 

“Yes, PT.” Phillip rolls his eyes. “The circus. Big tent, down by the docks?” When Barnum doesn't respond he continues. “Full of spectacle, and novelties, and oddities? You and I work there?”

 

“Yes, I...” Barnum clears his throat. “I'm well aware of what the circus is, Phillip. But what...you're going in? Today?”

 

Phillip nods. “And I should probably get back to my apartment tonight.”

 

“What...your apart...Phillip, are you serious?”

 

Phillip's eyebrows rise. “Well, I have to go home at some point, PT.” He gestures to the thoroughly rolled back sleeves of his borrowed shirt, cuffed carefully to conceal his bruised wrists. “I can't go around wearing your cast-offs forever.”

 

Nothing wrong with cast-offs, Barnum thinks. He'd worn his father's old, threadbare shirts for years without complaint.

 

“I'll send O'Malley to pick up some clothes from your apartment for you.”

 

“What? He doesn't even have a key.” Phillip sighs at Barnum's tilted head and raised eyebrows. “Right. That wouldn't stop him.”

 

“No, it certainly wouldn't.”

 

“But, look PT. I've been here long enough. I'm feeling much better.” Phillip hefts his mug and a half-finished piece of toast. “See? Eating, drinking, walking, all like a perfectly health...ah...like everyone else.” He covers his hesitation quickly, probably hoping Barnum won't notice.

 

Barnum notices. “And I'm endlessly grateful that you're feeling better. But still, Phillip, I'm not sure if you going to the circus or your apartment is...well...”

 

“Well, what?”

 

“Safe,” Barnum grants, and suddenly he's lost his appetite. Phillip sets his toast down too, and he guesses he's not the only one. Not that Phillip's had much of an appetite at all, lately.

 

“So what am I supposed to do, PT? Stay in your guestroom until my parents expire?”

 

_Yes._ “No, I'm not...I'm not suggesting that, Phillip. I just...isn't it a little soon?”

 

“I'm _fine,_ PT,” Phillip growls.

 

Barnum raises his hands, realizes it's the same placating gesture he's seen their newest trainer use on the black bear he's teaching to waltz. “Yes, I see that. Even so, I'm not sure it's...wise...for you to be out by yourself right now.”

 

Phillip throws his own arms up. “I'm a grown man! Am I supposed to live in fear of my parents and every doctor in the city for the rest of my life?”

 

“No.” Barnum drops his hands to the table, drums his fingers on the gold cloth. “But I think it might be sensible to take some...precautions.”

 

Phillip snorts and pushes up from his chair. “Somehow I don't think all that paperwork at the circus got taken care of in my absence, and God only knows what my landlord will do to my apartment if he thinks I've fled the country or something.” He stalks to the kitchen door. “I'm going to the circus today, PT.”

 

“Wait,” Barnum calls out, and Phillip pauses in the doorway with his back to the older man. “Let me go to the office with you. We can pick up some things from your apartment on the way back.” Phillip stares hard at his hand on the doorknob. “Just...stay here for a little while longer.” Phillip's shoulders rise with his breath but he says nothing. “Please, Phillip.”

 

“Fine.” Phillip shoves through the door. Barnum pushes his plate of food away, stomach gone sour, and scowls at the rain pattering against the kitchen window.

 

* * *

 

 

“He can't be serious,” Barnum complains to Charity in their bedroom as he slides his suspenders over his shoulders.

 

“I'm certain he is,” she responds, dragging a brush through her hair.

 

“But...but what if his parents try a trick like that again?”

 

“I doubt they'll send anyone after him now, especially in public.” Charity drums the brush in her hand. “They're trying to _avoid_ a scandal, not cause another one.”

 

“Well, that's not a risk I'm willing to take.” Barnum prowls to his armoire, paws through the ties in the top drawer.

 

“Phin, you can't keep him locked up here forever. That's the last thing he needs right now, after what his parents did.” Barnum winces.

 

“And that's another thing. He says he doesn't want to go to the police, says there's no point in trying to charge his parents or those damned doctors.”

 

“That's his decision, then. And he's probably right.” Charity sighs. “It's his word against theirs, and I suspect the police would be more likely to listen to two affluent, _respected_ parents than to a disinherited son who ran off to join the circus.”

 

“Well, he needs to do something before those bruises fade. If he doesn't...” Barnum looks between the ties in either hand, displeased with both options.

 

“Then he doesn't. And that's fine.”

 

“Fine. But he isn't...he's in no _condition_ to be on his own.” He makes his choice, tosses the rejected tie back in the drawer.

 

“Phin, he's an adult. And he _is_ capable of taking care of himself.” She picks up a pin from her vanity to secure a curl.

 

“Not in my experience,” Barnum grumbles.

 

“Phineas,” Charity chides, lock of hair sliding from her fingers as she turns in her chair to regard him.

 

“Of course he is,” Barnum concedes. “But you know he has his...difficulties. And I cannot believe that a few days after being utterly betrayed by the ones who brought him into the world he's going to be completely recovered!”

 

Charity grabs her brush again. “I don't think he is either, but is that what this is about?”

 

Barnum fumbles at his tie. “What?”

 

“This is all about Phillip, and how he's feeling?”

 

“Wha...yes.” Barnum discards his current tie, picks up the cerulean one at front of the drawer.

 

“And that's all. _Just_ Phillip. Nothing to do with you?”

 

“With me...are you trying to tell me you aren't concerned too?”

 

“Yes, I'm concerned, Phin.” Charity's brush thuds on the vanity. “But I don't think Phillip's well-being is the only reason you're reacting this way.”

 

“I...of course this is about him. Nothing more to say.” He finally manages the knot on his tie, grabs his waistcoat on the way out of the room. “We're going over to his apartment to pick up some things after we're done at the circus. I'll see you tonight.”

 

He shuts the door hard enough that he doesn't hear Charity murmur under her breath, “Oh, Phin,” behind him.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Phillip isn't sure what Barnum's told everyone at the circus, but the older man must have told them something. For possibly the first time they both make it to their shared office without anyone coming up to complain about last night's dinner at the mess tent, or to beg for a new costume, or to ask one of them to demonstrate some of the dance moves just one more time.

 

He shakes off his damp coat and hat, settles at his wide desk, and shuffles through the papers, deciding what is most urgent – ordering food for the animals, and for the performers, that tax form he picked up from the Mayor's Office last month – and what can wait a little longer – the application for an expansion of the circus lot, pricing out lumber for a new animal enclosure – and is hours deep into his paperwork when he glances at the clock and startles.

 

“PT!” Barnum drops his pen with a clatter as he looks up at Phillip.

 

“What is it? What's wrong?” He pushes up from his desk, comes around it to approach Phillip.

 

“The time, PT! Show's starting in half an hour. Aren't you going on?”

 

Barnum's hands relax down by his side. “Oh, that's it? I thought...” He shakes his head. “I...wasn't planning to go on tonight.”

 

Phillip stares at him. “What do you mean? PT, you always do the Friday evening show.”

 

“You know as well as I do our performers are perfectly capable of managing without us for a show or two.”

 

Phillip blinks. “Well of course they are but...you're here. This is _your_ show. Are you telling me you'd rather sit in here and do paperwork than go on stage?”

 

“Well, I thought...maybe...today...” Barnum stammers.

 

“And _I'm_ the one everyone's worried about?” Phillip mutters in disbelief. “Why wouldn't you want to go on?” Then the pieces slot together and his pulse quickens. “Oh. You...you think I need a chaperone, PT?”

 

Barnum works his mouth like a river trout before he finds his voice. “No, I don't think you need a chaperone, Phillip. I just...”

 

Phillip glowers. “For the love of God, PT, stop being an idiot. Go do the show. I'll be here when you get back.”

 

“Is it...do _you_ want to do the show? Watch from backstage, at least?”

 

“Me? I..ah...” _In front of everyone, and would they know, would they be able to tell?_ “No, PT, you should go. I..ah...I haven't practiced this routine in a while. And I really do need to get some work done.”

 

Barnum crosses his arms. “Are you sure, Phillip?”

 

“Jesus, yes. Get changed and get out there, so Lettie knows she'll be singing tonight, not wrangling cats.” Barnum huffs once, twice, before relenting and grabbing his outfit from the wardrobe in their office. He changes adroitly, pauses at the door and glances back at Phillip.

 

“You'll lock this after I leave?”

 

“Lock it? Since when do we...PT, we're right next to the...” Phillip trails off at the look on Barnum's face. “Alright. I'll lock it. _Go_.”

 

Phillip stands by the door and watches Barnum's crimson coattails disappear into the backstage entrance of the big top, noticing for the first time that the morning's rain has been swept away by a blustery breeze. He shuts the door, and jumps when something outside the building booms, reverberating through the small office. His vision goes white for a moment before color starts spilling in through the window.

 

_Fireworks. Just fireworks._

 

He leans his forehead against the door while he works to control his breathing. When he can no longer hear his own pulse in his ears, he sets a trembling hand on the lock. His sleeve rides up, and he contemplates the purple marks just peeking past the cuff of his sleeve, matches his own fingers, so much smaller, to the imprints, then shakes his head when he remembers what he's here for.

 

And that's when it occurs to him, that maybe PT wanted to stay in the office that evening as much for his own sake as for Phillip's.

 

“You're a goddamned idiot, Carlyle,” he grumbles as he flips the deadbolt and hurries back to his desk to bury himself in invoices and tax forms.

 

* * *

 

 

He's fine in the office by himself that night. He's fine, as long as he has paperwork in front of his eyes to focus on, as long as the low roar of cheers from the big top fills his ears, keeps him from listening for every bump and rattle outside the office. He's fine in the flickering light from all the lamps he lit, letting the wicks out as far as they would go.

 

He's fine until Barnum's gentle knock at the door after the show makes him jolt so hard he bangs an elbow into the desk, knocks an inkwell over and obliterates hours of work. It's fine, just gives him something to do tomorrow.

 

He's fine, _really, PT, I'm fine,_ when he unlatches the door to let Barnum in, tells the older man he worries too much, there was no need to lock it. He's fine when they pick their way around muddy puddles on the way to the gates to catch a carriage, and he resolutely does not peer into every shadow they pass by.

 

He's fine. Absolutely fine.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made a game-day decision here to rearrange a few chapters for better flow. Hopefully I haven't made a terrible mistake.


	5. Chapter 5

Phillip wakes slowly. It takes him a moment to realize he's laying on the bed in his old room at the Carlyle home, the dark hickory headboard towering above his prone form. It takes him another minute to realize he's not alone.

 

He blinks a few times until the image of Dr. Gilpin seated next to his bed comes into focus.

 

“Hello, Phillip,” Gilpin says evenly. Phillip peers past him to see the two orderlies standing sentinel in front of the heavy bedroom door. “How are you feeling?” Gilpin asks.

 

Phillip scans the room again, darkened by the curtains over the window and devoid of any furniture other than his bed and Gilpin's chair.

 

“I understand that you must be confused right now, Phillip.”

 

Phillip rolls his head against the pillow until he's looking back at Gilpin. “ 'ere's the other one?”

 

Gilpin leans back. “What?”

 

“Th' other one. Glasses. Where's'ee?” Phillip runs his tongue across the top of his mouth, trying to dislodge the wad of cotton he's sure someone must have put there.

 

“Ah. My colleague, Dr. Turnbull? He is recovering in another room. Perhaps you do not recall striking him earlier?”

 

“Strikin...ehm... struck 'em?” Maybe it isn't cotton, because his mouth tastes like sawdust. He's hit the ground in the ring during rehearsals enough times to know the flavor.

 

“Yes. In your earlier...disturbance...you kicked him in the stomach and winded him quite badly. You should be glad he wasn't seriously hurt,” Gilpin says coolly.

 

“Hmm...stomach? Shoulda...shoulda aimed lower.” Gilpin's sharp inhale doesn't entirely mask the sound of an orderly chortling.

 

“That is quite enough, Phillip. You were impetuous and uncooperative, and you need to understand that such behavior is not part of a successful treatment program.”

 

“Pr'gram?” Phillip asks woozily.

 

“Yes, program. Dr. Turnbull and I have come up with a detailed plan following consultations with your parents. We are quite eager to begin. I'm sure when you're feeling better you will be glad that we didn't wait a moment longer to begin addressing your mental alienation.”

 

“What're...what're you gonna do t' me?”

 

“We're not going to do anything _to_ you, Phillip. _You_ are going to work with _us_ to remedy your troubling behaviors. And based on what I've seen so far, your parents were right to get you out of that circus as soon as possible. They should have contacted me the first time you put on that ostentatious coat.”

 

_Circus. Out of the –_

 

Phillip bolts upright, sending Gilpin rocking back in his chair.

 

“No. 'm leaving,” Phillip says as he tries to lever himself out of the bed. He's just started to untangle one leg from the bed linens before the orderlies are hovering over him _not again_ and those steel hands press his shoulders down into the mattress _not my throat I couldn't breathe_ and Gilpin's smooth fingers slide his shirtsleeve up and settle on his arm below his elbow. He jerks away, up, to the side _there's nowhere to go_ and then a needle slices through to his vein and his blood fills with ice.

 

He's just wondering if it would actually be possible to sink down through the bed, the floor, the rooms below, to the dirt under the Carlyle estate and down even farther, through the hard rocks and subterranean seas and ancient bones of the earth, when Gilpin grabs his chin firmly.

 

“Again, Phillip, that is quite enough of that. If you persist in being this disobliging, my colleagues and I will be forced to place you in restraints, and I'm sure you agree that would only be counterproductive for everyone involved.”

 

“Lemme go. Pl'se,” Phillip whines.

 

Gilpin sighs and releases his grip on Phillip's jaw. “We're doing this for your sake, Phillip. And we will find the correct course of treatment to remedy what ails you, to make you a proper, productive member of society once more. You'll feel better soon enough, Phillip.”

 

_Liar_ , Phillip thinks, but he can't quite feel his tongue or his lips or his nose anymore _and how can he still be breathing is he breathing_ , so he doesn't get a word out before Gilpin and one of the orderlies depart. The other comes over and doesn't spare Phillip a glance as he picks up the chair and follows the doctor's tracks, shutting the door behind him.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which things start to unravel.

It's days later, at the office again – just when Barnum has convinced himself that Phillip is on the mend, just after he's stopped scanning the face of anyone who gets within a dozen feet of either of them – when Phillip proposes something so absurd, so asinine, the thin thread that's been holding Barnum's composure together finally snaps.

 

“I think I should go talk to my parents again.”

 

Barnum jaw falls open. “You think you should...are you joking? Because I'm not laughing.”

 

“I'm serious, PT.” Phillip doesn't look up from whatever form it is he's working on. “Maybe I can reason with them.”

 

“You want to reason with the people who had you locked in a room and drugged with God knows what so _they_ could feel better about _themselves?”_

 

Phillip fiddles with the pen in his hand. “It wasn't just about them.”

 

_No, it was about beating every original thought and unique attribute out of you, about battering you until you became the mindless mannequin they apparently want for a son._ “I don't give a damn _why_ they did it, Phillip. _What_ they did was unforgivable.”

 

“But I – ”

 

“And you already tried to _reason_ with them once. Look where that got you.”

 

Phillip sets his pen down with deliberate slowness, staring hard at his desk. “I am aware of that. But maybe if I try another approach – ”

 

“You cannot go back there,” Barnum asserts.

 

“Not to the house, no, but perhaps a more...neutral site. A cafe, or – ”

 

“No,” Barnum growls, and Phillip finally looks up.

 

“No?” Phillips eyebrows rise.

 

“Absolutely not!” Barnum pounds a fist on his desk.

 

“Abso...who do you think you are, PT?”

 

“Apparently I'm the only one with the smallest modicum of _sense_ around here!” It takes everything Barnum has to keep his voice below a shout.

 

Phillip stares sharply at him. “Oh, so I can't think for myself, now?”

 

“It certainly doesn't seem like you can.”

 

Phillip laughs, and the sound makes the hairs on the back of Barnum's neck stand up. “And I suppose _you're_ the one who is going to be telling me how _I_ should think and what _I_ should do?”

 

Barnum sputters for a moment and he narrows his eyes, considering. “Did these...doctors...have something to say about what you should be thinking, Phillip?”

 

Phillip jolts back in his chair. “What? No.”

 

“Bullshit,” Barnum snaps, and Phillip's eyes widen. “What did they say?”

 

“He said a lot of things, PT.”

 

_He?_ “Name one.”

 

“It's not...he...I didn't...I told you, they thought my...behaviors were aberrant.” Phillip waves a hand dismissively, and Barnum eyes the bruises on his wrists.

 

“I've heard that one before. So have you. What else?”

 

“What else? What...what do you want to hear?”

 

“I want to know whatever it is they told you that's got your head twisted so far around you think going back to your parents is a _good_ idea, and not the stupidest thing anyone's ever heard.”

 

“Stupidest...I'm trying to deal with this situation like a goddamned _adult_ , PT. I know that must be a foreign concept to you.”

 

“Foreign con...you little – ” Barnum isn't sure when they both got to their feet, but he's standing with both palms pressed flat to his desk while Phillip's hands are fists by his sides.

 

“I know your strategy is to pretend your problems don't exist,” Phillip mocks, and the tone makes Barnum remember every swell who ever looked down on him, who ever told him _know your place, cur._ He's never heard it come from Phillip.

 

“I don't – ”

 

“Why bother dealing with them, really, when you can just drop them and run off with the latest shiny object that catches your eye, force everyone else to clean up your shit?”

 

“Shiny...don't be absurd. And you've been doing a marvelous job dealing with _your_ shit lately, Phillip.” Barnum's gut boils so violently he forgets to be amazed at the impeccably polite Phillip Carlyle resorting to the type of language that wouldn't be out of place at a railroad camp.

 

“At least I'm trying!”

 

“You call this trying? You won't tell me a damn thing about what happened, won't tell anyone, and the best idea you can come up with is to go _back_ to the wretched examples of humanity who got you into this mess?”

 

“I didn't...I'm not...I don't need to tell _you_ anything, and I can figure this out on my own! Without your _astute_ input.” 

 

“Oh, really,” Barnum snorts. “Because you were doing _so_ well before I came around, drowning yourself in every bottle of booze you could get your hands on. If that's your way of dealing with things like a _goddamned adult,_ I shudder to think of what you consider _childish_!”

 

Phillip pants. “Go fuck yourself, PT,” he finally replies as he turns on his heel to stomp out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

 

Barnum stands still as the sound dissipates, then smacks a palm on his desk hard enough to make his fingers throb before he slumps into his chair and drops his head into his hands.

 

* * *

 

 

Barnum has a lot of reasons to love his new home. It's proof he can still provide for his family, it protects the things he values most from the harsh elements (and _that's_ not something he can take for granted, not after spending a long, cold winter in alleys and doorways before he joined the railroad), and it's much closer to the circus than his old house near the Hallett estate.

 

Thank God for that last. It means this interminable carriage ride with Phillip will soon be over.

 

He doesn't know where the younger man went after their argument in the office while he was catching up on the endless paperwork associated with a spectacle the size of PT Barnum's Greatest Show on Earth. He wasn't hiding in there, he would never hide from Phillip, he really did have work to do.

 

When he'd gone to the circus gates to hail a carriage home – normally he walks regardless of the weather, but he still doesn't think Phillip is up to the exertion yet, even if his partner's vocal cords are clearly working just fine – Phillip had been leaning against one of the posts inside the gate.

 

He'd anticipated a snide comment when he approached, something about how Phillip was _adult_ enough to hold to their agreement to travel together _._ The younger man hadn't uttered a word, though, instead fell into step next to him, shoulders hunched and hat drawn down against the damned perpetual drizzle that's been hanging over the city for weeks.

 

They say nothing on the ride home, fog from their breath obscuring the darkened scenery outside the carriage windows, and Barnum still expects a joke about this being the longest Phillip's ever seen him go without talking, but his partner heads off to the guest room as soon as they alight.

 

Barnum stands in the foyer, lost in his own head, and doesn't even have the chance to take off his coat or hat before what sounds like a herd of elephants comes charging down the stairs.

 

“Daddy!” Helen shrieks as she launches herself at him when she hits the first floor.

 

“Ah, how's my favorite little lioness?” He calls as he swings her around. Caroline trots over to him not long after, wraps her arms around his waist, not minding the damp fabric of his coat.

 

“How was your day, Daddy?” Barnum beams down at her.

 

“It. Was. Wonderful!” He says as he picks her up under one arm and spins her too. They giggle as he sets them down.

 

“Daddy,” Helen asks, “where's Phillip?”

 

Barnum barely keeps his smile from slipping. “Oh, he's...resting in his room, Helen.”

 

“Is he sick again?” Caroline asks.

 

_When was he well,_ he might reply, but he bites his tongue. “He's just tired, Caroline.”

 

“Can I go show him my English composition?” Helen's eager eyes stare up at him.

 

“No, not right now, darling. Where is your mother?”

 

“In the kitchen,” Caroline answers primly.

 

“Ah, well, go help her with dinner. I'll be right there.”

 

Helen skips after Caroline down the hall toward the kitchen while Barnum hangs up his outer garments.

 

He looks down the far hallway, cast in shadow by the lamps in the foyer, toward the closed door of the guest room for a long moment, takes a step in that direction, before sighing and turning away to walk to the kitchen.

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

Phillip wakes up long before anyone else in the Barnum household the next morning.

 

That's not quite true, actually. It's not so much waking up as still being up, Barnum's words echoing in his head, _every bottle of booze you could find_ , along with phrases in a more senatorial tone, like _mental alienation,_ and _remedy what ails you,_ and some other things he can't bring himself to consider.

 

But he's spent _years_ getting by on little sleep, and the past few weeks are no different, no excuse for how he's been acting. It's certainly no excuse for what he said to Barnum yesterday, and he's not sure why Barnum's adamant refusal – as if he was in a position to tell Phillip what he could and could not do – made his stomach churn and his head throb. Why it made him bolt for the nearest door, run into the open air, simply because he could.

 

Barnum doesn't _get it,_ why he wants his parents to understand what he's doing, to – if they will never quite embrace it – at least accept it. And if Phillip hadn't waited so long to try to convince them, to prevent them from thinking the absolute worst of him, maybe he could have averted this entire debacle.

 

Or perhaps the indomitable PT Barnum has simply forgotten how it feels to have someone else tell him what he isn't allowed to do, since any force in heaven or hell could stop his partner when he had a plan. _Unlike the rest of us_ , Phillip thinks, _who can never break free of the raging current._

 

He steps to the window, looks out into the still darkness, the reflection of streetlights flickering in the pools of water gathered on the setts. He knows what lies ahead today, how he will have to make an appearance at the breakfast table, how Charity will smile at him when he comes in, how Caroline will want to show off her latest dance steps, how Helen will clamber into his lap to reach for the toast, how Barnum will heft a clean mug and pour a cup of coffee for him without even asking if Phillip wants it.

 

It doesn't sit right with him, grates against his skin, makes his shoulders knot. Despite all the times he's been in the ring, he's not a natural actor. There's a reason he wrote plays, and never performed them. Didn't perform at all until someone shoved a bright red coat into his hands, reeled him in with a smile even brighter.

 

He doesn't belong here, and he can't keep acting as though he does.

 

He's better on his own, anyway. With his time entirely his own, to devote to work or whatever else as he so chooses. Where he can make his own decisions, without them affecting others. Where he doesn't have to account for his behavior to anyone, least of all himself.

 

Where he doesn't have to meet Barnum's stare without wavering every time he says _I'm fine_ , _PT_ , where he doesn't have to keep his hands loose and his eyes open whenever Barnum claps him on the shoulder, where no one prods him to talk about old demons that are best left in the ground where they belong.

 

He gathers a few belongings from the guest room, just what he can carry, gets dressed, and grabs a sheet of paper from the desk. He dashes off a quick note to the Barnums, thanking them for their hospitality and generosity, writing to Helen he's eager to read her latest essay, to Caroline that he can't wait for her next recital, and leaves the letter on the kitchen table before he lets himself out the front door into the misty morning.

 

* * *

 

 

The sky is starting to lighten when Phillip gets back to his apartment. He hasn't been there since he and Barnum visited what feels like months ago. Everything is just as he left it, but he marvels at how it all seems so different now, how much deeper the shadows are, how he looks at the empty spaces and can't help but wonder what they say about him.

 

He shakes his head to clear that thought, and rifles through his barren cabinets and cupboards as if he doesn't know what's there. Maybe he doesn't. He opens the last cupboard, a narrow one at the end of the small kitchen, next to the window that looks out onto the street below, and finds a mostly empty bottle of whiskey.

 

He takes it out, swirls the amber liquid around in the dim light before holding the bottle at arm's length. It's been there for months, untouched, ever since he reassured Barnum that his days of downing drink after drink by himself in his apartment were behind him.

 

 _Didn't dump it out, though, did you,_ he thinks derisively. PT's right about some things. He debates doing that now, tossing the bottle in his rubbish bin or opening the window beside him and pouring it out on the stones far below.

 

He pulls the bottle closer, takes it in both hands, considering. He's grateful Barnum hadn't seen it when they were here earlier, but the thought of the look that would be on Barnum's face, frustrated and curious and disappointed and concerned, is more than he can bear so he sets it back on the shelf and slams the cabinet door shut.

 

Phillip stalks into the drawing room, sorts through his mail for a few minutes before his heart nearly beats out of his chest when he can't remember if he locked the door behind him. He rushes over to see the latch has in fact been switched, and leans with his shoulder against the frame, quaking.

 

He stays there for a few moments, until he slides down the door, comes to rest with his back against the paneling, feet splayed in front of him, staring down his hallway to the kitchen and the window beside the narrow cabinet, catching the fractured first rays of sun over the buildings to the east.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to comment or leave kudos - I really do appreciate it.

Phillip can't quite tell if it's dark in the room because the sun has set, or if whatever it is that's pumping through his veins has sapped all the light out of his world.

 

“Ah, you're back with us, Phillip.” But he _is_ certain that he desperately hates that sonorous voice, how it sets his teeth on edge and rattles in his head.

 

“Doc,” he says. Charles and Lettie would be proud of him for his insolence.

 

“Well, you at least seem to recognize me, so perhaps we can pick up where we left off, hmm?” Phillip says nothing, focuses on wiggling his toes under the heavy coverlet. “As I've said, your parents are extremely concerned with your recent behavior.”

 

“Jus' the recent stuff?”

 

Gilpin sighs and smooths his mustache with his thumb and index finger. “Please take this seriously, Phillip. This business you've gotten into with the circus. Perhaps you can't see now how irrational and inappropriate it is, but I'm confident we can stabilize your thinking until you do.”

 

Phillip snorts inelegantly.

 

“Phillip.” Gilpin leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “You must understand. These people at the circus, they don't have your best interests at heart.”

 

“Care 'bout me helluva lot more'n you,” Phillip mutters.

 

Gilpin shakes his head. “No. They care about the resources you can bring to bear, the funds in your accounts, how they can profit from your reputation and stature. They don't care about _you._ ”

 

“S'wrong.”

 

“And yet it _is_ your money that rebuilt the circus after the fire, is it not? The fire you nearly perished in, after your colleague left you to run the business while he went gallivanting across the country with an attractive woman to whom he was not married?”

 

“No,” Phillip protests. “PT. Saved me.”

 

“Isn't it more likely that he knew your death would imperil his business, eliminate a needed source of funding?”

 

“No,” Phillip repeats. “That's not...wasn't...didn't happen like that.”

 

“And isn't it true that your...partner...initially approached you, offered to do business with you, because he believed your status would benefit _him_?” Gilpin's brow is creased, his lips set in a thin line.

 

“I...but,” Phillip stutters, falls silent.

 

“I understand that you find it difficult to objectively analyze these relationships, Phillip. It is hardly surprising. But that is something we can work on.”

 

Phillip would scream if he could, if his muddled mind wasn't too busy winding through Gilpin's convoluted argument, like frozen fingers struggling to untangle ropes knotted in the pulleys of the big top's catwalk.

 

Gilpin leans back and reaches into the case at his feet. “I don't believe I need to press you further on this topic. I'm certain you have plenty to think over.” A figure detaches from the shadows in the corner of the room, and Phillip only realizes it's an orderly when he sees the stark white bandage across the man's nose, flashing in the gloom around them. The man grabs Phillip's arm on either side of his elbow, pulls his hands apart and stretches the skin taught until Phillip squirms.

 

He flails against that iron vice around his arm, rocks his chest up, scrambles his feet in the sheets to get a leg, a knee, _anything,_ free. But the hulking man bears down harder, brings up his own knee to trap Phillip's stomach and it's like he's being crushed by _boulders_ and he can barely drag another breath into his aching lungs.

 

“Le' go,” he wheezes. No one pays him any mind.

 

“This will help you reflect on what we've talked about just now, Phillip,” and there's another prick at his elbow and the shadows swirl from the edges of the room until the darkness swallows Phillip whole.

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

Barnum thinks he's managing fairly well in the wake of Phillip's departure.

 

He doesn't raise the issue with Phillip, doesn't press him, doesn't rehash their weighted words from earlier.

 

He doesn't exactly apologize either, and he tells the part of him that thinks he should that neither of them really want to have that conversation, not when it would most likely devolve back into yelling and bitter recriminations.

 

Besides, there's no harsh critique Phillip might deliver that he hasn't already told himself. And he and Phillip have been doing a top-notch job at avoiding each other lately, so there aren't many opportunities to have that discussion, even if either of them wanted to.

 

But it doesn't seem like everyone else at the circus agrees with their plan.

 

The first person to come speak to him, to his surprise, is Anne.

 

“Mr. Barnum?” She asks as she peeks in the office door. Phillip is, naturally, nowhere to be found.

 

“Ah, yes, Anne, please come in.” He's not thrilled that she calls him by an honorific and his surname when he uses her given name, but she's still too polite to call him 'Barnum' as most of the other circus performers do, and 'Phineas' is really just for Charity, and the only one who calls him 'PT' is...

 

Well, anyway, she's too polite, especially when compared with the likes of her colleagues. He wonders if that's down to her having fewer years than Lettie to become caustic and cynical enough to eschew propriety, or if it's the burden of always needing to be a little more careful, a little better, on account of the color of her skin.

 

He hasn't had to live her life. Most days, he's grateful for that.

 

“What can I do for you?” He asks once she's in the room, pulling her attention away from Phillip's empty desk.

 

“I...I just wanted to ask...about Phillip...” Barnum nearly snaps the pencil in his hand. “Something happened, didn't it?” She looks him dead on.

 

“Yes, something did,” he replies.

 

“He won't tell me anything about it. I can barely get two words out of him.” Barnum sighs. He's not having much success either.

 

“I'm not really in a position to speak for him,” he says. _I'm not in a position to do much of anything for him, it appears._

 

“But has he at least told you?” She asks firmly.

 

“I...yes.” He decides that's the right answer, although it's quite clear by now he only has part of the story.

 

“What are you doing about it?” And he realizes he misjudged her, because there's nothing demure about her in that moment.

 

“I...I'm doing everything I can, Anne.” Her face softens a bit at that, at the low tone of his voice, and it takes him a moment to realize the thing he's feeling is shame. He isn't doing enough.

 

“What can _I_ do?” she asks him then, and his heart breaks for her.

 

“Maybe,” he thinks of Charity's words to him earlier, “we should just give Phillip a little space. Let him figure some of this out on his own.”

 

“Do you really think that's going to work?” She demands.

 

 _No._ “Well,” he summons his showman's smile, though it's a pale shade of its normal brightness, “there's only one way to find out, isn't there?” Anne just blinks at him, and he thinks of all the things he thought a successful show would bring him, this level of entanglement in the lives of others certainly wasn't one of them.

 

“And...are you alright, Mr. Barnum?” _Damn_. Do all the women at the circus get together and practice that discerning stare on each other, or is he just getting soft in his old age?

 

“I'm fine, Anne. And Phillip will be, too. Just give him some time.” _Barnum Humbug,_ and those words have never filled him with this level of disgust.

 

Either he's every bit the huckster Bennett has accused him of being, or Anne knows a lost cause when she sees one, because she lets him off the hook.

 

“Alright, Mr. Barnum. But if you see Phillip...”

 

“Yes?” He prods.

 

She shakes her head. “Never mind. It doesn't matter.”

 

 _I doubt that very much_ , he thinks, but he doesn't have a chance to reply before she's turned and walked away.

 

He drops his head into his hands at his desk, only raises it again when he hears the door hinges creak open.

 

“Anne, was there something...” But it's not Anne standing in his door.

 

It's Phillip, and he looks just as surprised, and distressed, as Barnum feels.

 

“Oh. PT. I thought you would be...”

 

“Just finishing up on some paperwork,” he replies with all the cheer he can muster.

 

“Ah,” Phillip replies dumbly, still standing there with his hand on the door knob.

 

“I'll just leave you to – ”

 

“I'll be leaving in a few – ”

 

They fall silent for a moment. Barnum gathers his courage and speaks first. “I'm heading out to lunch with Charity and the girls shortly.” The invitation he might extend dies in his throat, sinks down to his stomach like a stone.

 

“Ah,” Phillip says. “Good. I'll...ah...”

 

“Anne was looking for you,” Barnum blurts out, desperate to keep the younger man engaged for a little while longer.

 

“Oh,” Phillip responds. “Was it...was it urgent?”

 

“No,” Barnum says. He thinks that's a lie.

 

“Ah,” Phillip repeats. “Well, I just...” he motions vaguely behind him, “need ...something else.” He's gone from the doorway before Barnum can even respond.

 

“Whatever it is you need, kid,” he grumbles to the empty air, “I sure as hell don't have it.”

* * *

 

 

The first time he sees Barnum after his departure is awkward. As is the second. And the third. And every time after that.

 

Barnum doesn't bring up the issue, though, and Phillip figures Charity must have had words with him. The woman is clearly a miracle worker. God knows he was never able to get the showman to do anything _he_ said.

 

Not that he's saying much of anything to Barnum these days. He cannot abide where those conversations might go. Barnum would bring up the issue of his parents, again, and then he'd be forced to make a decision.

 

Lie to his partner, and say he decided not to pay them a visit. Say he has no intention of contacting them again.

 

Or tell the truth, that he went once some days after their argument, that he got to the right block, planned on marching up to the door and pounding on it until someone came out so he could demand some goddamn _answers._ But that he only took a few steps toward the imposing edifice before his vision narrowed and his breath caught in his throat and he thought of nothing but cold needles and colder hands until he turned tail and scurried back into the city.

 

Barnum told him he was brave, once, for running into the fire that night. Barnum told him he was an idiot, too, and he thinks that's closer to the truth.

 

So he does what he can to avoid his partner, to avoid the questions he isn't ready for. And anyways, there's still plenty to do at the circus outside of the office when Barnum is in it, and stacks of paperwork to attend to when the showman is elsewhere, practicing an act or talking to the performers.

 

He lets Barnum handle most of that, tries to avoid lengthy discussions with the other oddities, because he doesn't know what to say to Anne's concerned looks, or Lettie's raised eyebrows, or Charles's exasperated sighs.

 

But he doesn't shirk from his duties when he's needed, can at least tell himself he will never disregard his commitments to the circus. When a voice calls out to him while he's walking the muddy path from the animal enclosure to the rehearsal tent, he stops and turns around.

 

“Mr. Carlyle, how are you?”

 

“I'm well, Constantine.” He doesn't bother to tell the tattooed man that they should be on a first name basis anymore, having finally recognized that to be a losing battle. “How are you?”

 

“Well, thank you,” Constantine replies. Phillip has no idea how he's held on to that polite courtesy, considering the company the other man keeps, wonders if the man's fearsome visage has forced him to gentle everything else about himself. “I am sorry to bother you, but I have an issue of some urgency.”

 

“What is it?” Phillip asks.

 

“I am afraid I am in need of a new costume.”

 

“Again?” Phillip asks before he can stop himself. For a man who wears precious little in the ring, Constantine does seem to go through fabric rather quickly.

 

“Yes,” Constantine holds out a bunched garment to Phillip, and Phillip is relieved to see it's the man's cape and not the...other article of clothing he dons for the act.

 

“What...what did you _do_?” He asks as he takes in the rent in the crimson fabric extending from just below the collar all the way to the hem.

 

“Caught it on a loose nail while I was back flipping,” Constantine replies, chagrined, as if damaging a piece of clothing while performing an acrobatic move most wouldn't even consider trying is a great failing. “I asked Lettie to sew it back together, but she says it need to be replaced.”

 

“Some things can't be mended,” Phillip mutters under his breath as he runs his hands along the tear, grateful it had torn and not caught, twisting the collar around Constantine's neck until he couldn't...he shakes his head, clears his throat.

 

But he must not have spoken as quietly as he thought because Constantine gives him a considering look. “If not mended, made into something new, maybe,” he replies, and Phillip can only swallow hard. “Is...”

 

“Yes?” Phillip asks.

 

“You and Mr. Barnum...” And of all the people he thought might raise it, had been avoiding specifically because he _didn't_ want to talk about it, he never thought quiet, demure Constantine would be the one to bring it up. “You are...in disagreement about something?”

 

“Everything's fine, Constantine,” Phillip replies.

 

“But you are not speaking to each other, and we are all concerned.” Constantine says levelly.

 

“That's...I...we would never let that jeopardize the circus, you don't need to worry.” That's true. If there's one thing he and Barnum can always see eye to eye on, it's the absolute need to keep the circus going, for the oddities and themselves and anyone who needs a little bit of spectacle to make it to tomorrow.

 

“That is not our worry, Mr. Carlyle,” Constantine corrects him.

 

“I...there's nothing to worry about,” Phillip stammers as he thrusts the torn cape back at the tattooed man. Constantine takes it as Phillip's sleeves slide up his arms. He yanks his hands back instinctively, pulling down on his cuffs, even though only the faintest impression of the bruises on his wrists remains.

 

“I'll put in the order for a new costume. See if Lettie wants to do anything with that fabric.” He nods at the garment, afraid to gesture at it with his hands.

 

“Of course,” Constantine responds. “I am meeting her in the mess tent for lunch shortly. Perhaps you would care to join us?”

 

“No...that's...no thank you. I'm a bit busy at the moment. Maybe next time.” And they both know that won't happen.

 

“Very well.” Constantine is far too polite to argue the point, and Phillip finds himself infinitely grateful it's not Lettie in front of him. “Have a good day, Mr. Carlyle.”

 

“You too, Constantine,” he mutters as he turns on his heel to trudge back to the office.

 

Hopefully Barnum's already gone home for the day. If not, Phillip's going to have to think about setting up a desk in the root cellar behind the mess tent. He can't keep this dance up forever.

 


	10. Chapter 10

“ 'ere are they?” He asks as soon as he surfaces from his stupor the next time, surprising himself with his own coherence.

 

“Your circus colleagues? They aren't here, Phillip. As we've discussed, they – ”

 

“No.” He turns his head to regard Gilpin. “M' parents.”

 

“Ah.” Gilpin nods. “They are here in the house. Dr. Turnbull has been keeping them updated on our discussions and advising them on our treatment program moving forward.”

 

“Wanna see them,” Phillip says.

 

“Of course, seeking paternal input is a normal response to the mental upheaval you are currently experiencing. But I'm afraid at this stage in treatment it is generally counterproductive to have familial involvement,” Gilpin comments sagely.

 

Phillip almost laughs at the idea of Gilpin trying to give that line to Barnum, or Charity, knows they would both clock the tall man if he even tried to suggest they abandon their girls to his tender mercies. He has to blink back tears at the thought of them, at his desperate desire to see either of their faces.

 

“I understand this is upsetting for you, Phillip. It's perfectly normal to have an emotional reaction to treatment.”

 

“Perfectly normal,” Phillip parrots. “ 's'it _perfectly normal_ to wanna punch your doct'r in th' face?”

 

Gilpin's expression twists. “These anti-social reactions are one issue for us to work through, Phillip. Fortunately, many in my profession have finally moved on from the dogmatic and superstitious views of our predecessors, and we now know how vital a productive relationship between patient and doctor is. I would like to get to a place where you can respect and trust my judgment.”

 

“Not'a lot t' respect so far,” Phillip snorts.

 

“And where do you think this disregard for authority figures, this distaste for the natural order of things originates, Phillip?”

 

“T'hell with your nat'ral order.” He knows who's at the top of that order. And he much prefers the company of those at the bottom.

 

“We all have a proper place in this society of ours, and I am confident we can help you regain yours.”

 

Where has he heard that before? “Left that place. Not goin' back. Good luck tryin'.” He has a sudden desire to borrow a page from Helen's book, stick his tongue out at the good doctor. Or maybe one from PT's, and respond with a gesture far more obscene.

 

Gilpin clears his throat and adjusts his tie. “Phillip, I really must insist that you cease this discourteous behavior. I'd prefer to conduct your treatment from the comfort of your own bed, but if necessary I will discuss institutionalization with your parents.”

 

Phillip gawks at the older man. “Put me inna asylum 'cause I joined th' circus?”

 

Gilpin leans back and smooths down his mustache. “As I've said, there are a variety of treatments available, but I'm sure you agree it would be preferable to exhaust the...least invasive options first.”

 

“ 'nvasive?” Phillip asks.

 

Gilpin stands and nods at something outside of Phillip's view. “Yes, Phillip, but we will cross that bridge if and when we come to it. It's clear you're not in a state where we can have a reasonable conversation right now, so we'll get on with your next dose.”

 

 _Reasonable conversation? What's reasonable about_ but Phillip can't even speak before the orderly with the broken nose replaces Gilpin at his bedside. The man leans down, seizes Phillip's arm right over his bruises _god why do they keep doing this to me_ jabs him so hard with the syringe Phillip thinks it must be hitting _bone_. “Yeah, kitten.” His breath ghosts across Phillip's cheek _get away from me_. “I'll take you there myself, strap you down and watch while they drill into that pretty little head of yours.”

 

And it's a testament to the potency of whatever drug they're giving him when even _that_ image isn't enough to keep Phillip from sinking back into the darkness.

  
  


 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Barnum does a very Barnum thing.

 

Barnum thinks the silence is going to drive him insane.

 

He's been called that word before, quite frequently in fact, but the idea doesn't fill him with the same defiant glee that it used to.

 

And it would be a shame, really, if he did fall into the demented hysterics at least half of the well-to-do families in New York think he must engage in on a daily basis (Barmy Barnum, he'd read in one of his favorite rags just the other week). Because he's been doing well at keeping his cool when he's around Phillip, at not bringing up the topic of Phillip's brief captivity at the Carlyle estate, or asking what the hell Phillip was thinking when he fled the Barnum house under cover of darkness, or inquiring how the younger man is feeling.

 

He knows the answer to that last one at least, can see it every time Phillip flinches at a door slamming, every time he turns down Anne's offers to get lunch at the mess tent, every time he demurs when asked to go in the ring, saying he's been too busy to practice the moves for the latest version of the act.

 

 _Give him some space,_ Charity had told him again last night, and he'd rolled his eyes and said with the way Phillip had been acting lately he was only too happy to give the younger man as much space as possible. Charity had given him that look then, the one she'd shot him when he mocked her parents in front of everyone at the reception following Miss Lind's first performance, and he'd wisely shut his mouth.

 

He says little to Phillip, other than what is strictly necessary to keep the circus running, which is still plenty, but the discussions about gate revenues and caravan repairs only make him miss their other conversations – the ones about how the constellations got their names, about the distant territories they would like to see, about how grand the world will be when no one bats an eye at Lettie, or Charles, or even Constantine walking down the street – all the more.

 

He's almost grateful for Phillip's uncanny ability to avoid the office while he's in. At least then he doesn't feel like he's walking on eggshells, like he needs to disguise how he's always tracking Phillip's movements out of the corner of his eye.

 

Though he is solely responsible for the mail and bills when that's the case, like now. He opens envelopes and sorts documents mindlessly – an unsolicited application from a man calling himself the human cannonball, an invitation to bring his show to some place in Wisconsin called Baraboo, the monthly statements from the bank – so he isn't really paying attention when he slices open a thin envelope and pulls out a short letter.

 

It takes him a while to register what he's seeing. He looks between the salutation: _Dear Mr. Carlyle,_ and the return address on the envelope: _Office of Dr. J. Gilpin_ , a few times before it all clicks together in his brain.

 

It's not his letter. He should put down the letter. He doesn't know who Dr. J. Gilpin is. He doesn't need to read the letter. He's giving Phillip some space. Space doesn't mean reading Phillip's letter. Phillip is a grown man. Who would not appreciate it if Barnum read the letter.

 

He reads the letter.

 

* * *

 

Barnum charges through the stately office building listed on the envelope in his coat pocket. He bounds up the wide stairs two at a time, knows the door he's looking for by instinct, the heavy oak panels at the end of the hallway framed tastefully by two pedestal tables.

 

He strides past the sputtering young man at the reception desk in the well-appointed waiting room, tread muffled by the heavy rug on the wooden floor, shoves open the only other door.

 

An older woman is laying down on a long couch below the curtain-covered windows. She twists on the plush cushions, gasping as he walks in. On the other side of the wainscoted office a man with a placid expression and a silver mustache sits behind a large, dark desk, a leather-bound notebook in front of him and an expensive pen in his hand. He doesn't move a muscle.

 

“My apologies, Madam. I need to speak with the good doctor. Please ask for a refund for this session on your way out. You can spend the money on much better things, trust me.”

 

The woman gapes at Barnum, small hand clutching the bejeweled choker around her throat.

 

“I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Sells,” Gilpin says smoothly. “We'll have to end our conversation here. Please do see Clarence to reschedule.”

 

The woman looks at Barnum, at Gilpin, then back at Barnum before getting to her feet. She gives Barnum a wide berth, bustled gown brushing against one of the potted ferns along the wall as she tiptoes out of the room.

 

“I take it I need no introduction, then, Dr. Gilpin?” Barnum draws out the man's title.

 

“No, Mr. Barnum. You do not. What can I do for you?” Gilpin asks calmly.

 

Barnum graces him with a toothy grin that would put a coyote to shame. “I don't think you can do much of anything for anyone, Doctor. I've seen your work.”

 

“Ah. How is Phillip?”

 

Barnum's nails dig into his palms. “Much better, now that you don't have your claws in him anymore.”

 

Gilpin sighs. “Now, Mr. Barnum, that hostile tone is unnecessary. Surely you can agree it would be better if we deal with this like adults?”

 

_Like a goddamn adult. Damn it, Phillip._

 

“Oh, believe me, Dr. Gilpin, if I want to get hostile you will be well aware.” He smirks. _Or you should be, somewhere between being tossed out the window and hitting the ground._

 

Gilpin smooths down his mustache. “What is it you want, Mr. Barnum?”

 

“How about we start with you telling me how exactly you think entrapping and drugging a young man against his will is an acceptable medical practice?”

 

“I'm afraid you do not understand the particulars of the situation.” Gilpin's even tone sets Barnum's teeth on edge.

 

“Oh, I understand plenty,” he scoffs.

 

“Do you?”

 

Barnum narrows his eyes. “Or, perhaps we should discuss where the hell you get off sending him a letter, ask him to visit you 'at his convenience,' after what you put him through?”

 

“Do you often make a habit of reading through Phillip's mail, Mr. Barnum?”

 

_Shit._

 

“No, Doctor. It was simply a fortuitous mistake.”

 

“Was it? I do find it fascinating, how determined you appear to be to control his environment. Perhaps a reflection of your own unstable youth?”

 

 _Unstable...what the hell?_ “He's free to do whatever he wants.”

 

“I see. And yet you have quite the hold on him, Mr. Barnum. I can tell you he was very resistant to the idea that your interest in him was anything less than benevolent, though I confess I remain skeptical of many of his interpretations of events.”

 

“Less than...how can you even suggest...”

 

“And I admit I am not entirely sure how much of your behavior is genuine and what is merely affected. I gather you are quite adept at...misdirecting others. I've found that's not uncommon among those who seek to disguise their inner thoughts and motivations, even from themselves.”

 

“I...inner...I'm not here to talk about me, I'm here to talk about the mess you dragged Phillip into,” Barnum snarls.

 

“Ah, yes. Are you really worried about what it is that _I've_ done to Phillip?”

 

Barnum can only stare hard at the doctor in disbelief as Gilpin continues.

 

“From what I understand you encouraged him to pursue a course you knew would be personally and professionally disastrous for him in an effort to enrich yourself and benefit your business. Do you make it a habit of putting your confidants in untenable situations?” Gilpin raises an eyebrow.

 

“I...that's not...”

 

“You must have known what his association with you would cost him. And I cannot imagine you did not find it peculiar that an otherwise successful young man would throw away a stable, secure life.”

 

“He was miserable,” Barnum counters.

 

“Yes, and you never thought to find out why, to determine the particulars of his psyche that would lead him to make such an illogical, unreasonable decision? When you fancy yourself such an astute judge of character?”

 

“Well, I wouldn't mind breaking that fancy statuette you have on your desk there over your head, Dr. Gilpin. I'd say that makes me an excellent judge of character, after all,” Barnum drawls.

 

Gilpin ignores that. “I will grant that you seem to have genuine concern for him, now. To what end, I am uncertain. And I continue to wonder if you have his best interests at heart.”

 

“Of course I do.”

 

“Do you, Mr. Barnum?”

 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

 

“Phillip has been ill for some time, Mr. Barnum. Surely you realize that some of his behaviors are neither normal nor to be desired. Yet what have you done to address them?”

 

Barnum knuckles shake. “ _Address_ them?”

 

“His drinking? His self-isolation? His obvious melancholia? Have you brought any of these up with him at any point, Mr. Barnum?”

 

“Well...I...”

 

“Or have you simply ignored the problems, hoping they would disappear on their own?”

 

_Hoping they would disappear on their own? That's not..._

 

“Have you done anything to encourage him to resolve these issues, to become a fully actualized, productive individual, or is your central goal merely to mold him in your image?”

 

Barnum's pulse thunders in his ears, and he dimly registers two large men shuffling in the door behind him. “In _my_ image? Rich, coming from you! All you've done is try to twist him into something he's not, make him a mindless automation that will do whatever his parents want.”

 

“And I suppose you have not tried to change him, Mr. Barnum? Phillip's parents desire to set him on a path that will make his life easier, that will help him belong in his society. If your intentions are as virtuous as you claim, can you say their goals are so different from your own?”

 

Barnum stalks over to the ornate desk, plants his hands on the edge and leans down until he is level with Gilpin's dark eyes. He might as well be looking at a stone, for all that the other man's face betrays.

 

“I want Phillip to be himself. The best version of himself. Happy, sad, angry, confused. I'll take them all. Because that's _him_ , the real him, whatever he wants to be, not what anyone else thinks he _should_ be. And if you ever, _ever,_ try to make him anything else again, I'll slit your goddamned throat.”

 

He pushes himself upright, turns to look at the men standing in the doorway. They're both of a size, with sturdy builds and brutish jaws. The one on the left has a crook in his swollen, ruddy nose.

 

Barnum tilts his head, and a smile slowly steals across his lips. “Did Phillip give you that?” He gestures at the man's face. The burly grunt sneers, and Barnum takes the silence as confirmation. “Good.”

 

He looks at the other man. “Now get out of my way, before I make you a matching set.”

 

“Please do reflect on what we've discussed, Mr. Barnum,” Gilpin calls out from behind him. “Mr. Clayton, kindly see Mr. Barnum out.”

 

Broken-nose steps into the office and clears the doorway, while the other man moves back into the reception area. Barnum meets both their stares as he leaves the office, and winks at Gilpin's nervous assistant once he makes it to the waiting room.

 

He's down the stairs and nearly out the door when a voice yells his name. He twists, fists clenched, ready for a fight, but the orderly, the one without the broken nose, Clayton, holds his hands up.

 

Barnum slowly lowers his arms halfway. “Yes?”

 

“Ah, Mr. Barnum...I just...I just want to say I didn't hurt your boy. Or if I did, I sure didn't mean to.”

 

Barnum's hands drop. “What?”

 

“I didn't...I don't...Dr. Gilpin doesn't always tell us a lot about the people he's treating. But your boy, he seemed like good people. He was tough, didn't take anything laying down.”

 

“He's not my...of course he was tough. He _is_ tough.”

 

The man twists his hands, doesn't meet Barnum's eyes. “Like I said, we don't usually know too much about the Doc's patients. Job's a job, you know?” He smiles nervously. Barnum doesn't return the expression. “But look, Mr. Barnum, I've seen the Doc help a lot of people. Help them feel better. Sometimes people don't realize they need the help, you know?”

 

Barnum scowls. “Phillip most certainly does _not_ need Dr. Gilpin's help.”

 

Clayton frowns. “Maybe not. But everyone needs help from someone.”

 

Barnum can't summon a response before the other man has turned away and walked back up the stairs at the end of the hallway. He runs a hand through his hair, tugs hard.

 

“You're a goddamn idiot, Barnum,” he mutters to himself as he leaves the building.

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which things fall apart, just a little more.

 

Phillip is surprised to come into the circus office on a Thursday afternoon and not find Barnum sitting at his desk. That's all he is. Surprised. Relieved, even. He certainly isn't disappointed. Why would he be? The showman's absence doesn't make every noise echo too loud, make the room feel cold and hollow.

 

It's good. This gives him the opportunity to work in silence, to not worry that he's going to lift his head from his paperwork to find Barnum looking at him, _again_ , to avoid another stilted conversation about the price of animal feed or if they need to hire another cook for the mess tent. He won't have to find some new excuse – an aching throat, or a sore knee – not to put on his red coat, the one Barnum made for him, and get into the ring.

 

But then Barnum does come in, and Phillip finds himself wishing for that stilted conversation after all. The showman doesn't return his polite greeting, doesn't take off his coat or his hat before he strides across the office and comes around Phillip's desk.

 

“PT?” He asks. Barnum doesn't meet his eyes, just looks at a spot on the floor between their feet.

 

Phillip's shoulders tense, and he wants to stand up, wants to push his chair back, away from Barnum, put more space between the two of them, but something stills him, binds him in ice.

 

Barnum pulls a folded envelope from his coat pocket. “This is yours,” he says, without preamble. “I accidentally opened it.”

 

“Oh. That's alright, PT,” Phillip replies as he takes the envelope from Barnum's outstretched hand. “Happens all the time.”

 

It doesn't, actually, but it has happened a few times, and he isn't sure why Barnum is treating this so gravely, unless the tension that's come between them really is affecting the older man more than Phillip realizes.

 

“I'm sorry.” Barnum meets his eyes, and something in the man's face makes sweat prickle across Phillip's scalp, down his spine.

 

He scans the center of the envelope, sees his name and the circus's address in neat script. He inspects the return address, and that's when his blood freezes.

 

“Doctor Gilpin,” he works out around a tongue gone bone dry, and he barely notices Barnum crouching down in front of him.

 

“I didn't see the name until I opened it, Phillip, I promise.”

 

“You didn't,” Phillip says, disbelievingly, staring at the envelope. “So why was this in your pocket?”

 

“Phillip...I...”

 

“Did you read it?”

 

“I...yes...”

 

“All of it?” Barnum nods. “Accidentally?” Phillip chuckles and shakes his head. “How does that work, exactly, PT?”

 

“Look, Phillip, I know I shouldn't have, but what's in there, what he wrote, you can't pay attention to any of it – ”

 

“Oh, you've had some time to think about this, have you?” Phillip is surprised by the even intonation of his own voice. Barnum grimaces.

 

“And where...where _were_ you, PT?” Barnum only reaches out, places a hand on the armrest of Phillip's chair.

 

Phillip studies that hand, can hardly believe it when he doesn't see any scrapes or cuts across the other man's knuckles. “You went to see him, didn't you?”

 

“Yes,” Barnum replies. “I did.”

 

“And you talked about me.”

 

“Yes. We did.”

 

_We?_ “You compare notes while you were there, PT? Maybe discuss a new treatment program?”

 

Barnum gapes at him. “What? No, of course not, Phillip! You can't...everything that man's done, everything he's said, is vile and...and wrong...and – ”

 

“Humbug?” Phillip smiles mirthlessly.

 

“No, that's not...Phillip, I just...I wanted – ”

 

“What, PT?”

 

“To take care of this, so you didn't have to see him!”

 

“And what if I _had_ wanted to see him?”

 

Barnum raises his free hand to the other armrest, and Phillip curls his toes in his shoes to keep from kicking out. “You don't want...you _can't_ see him again, Phillip.”

 

“Please, PT,” Phillip says, frost on his breath, “continue to tell me what I can and cannot do. I find it so very comforting, to be freed from the burden of choice.” He stands suddenly, dislodging Barnum's hands, and moves to collect his coat and hat.

 

“Phillip, wait...” Barnum staggers to his feet, characteristic grace absent.

 

“I think I'm finished here for the day, PT.” He slides the creased envelope into his coat pocket. “Do please make sure you respond to that gentleman from Philadelphia and tell him we have open auditions for new acts on the first Thursday of every month.” He makes for the door.

 

“Damn it, Phillip, _wait!”_ Barnum's long fingers wrap around Phillip's elbow as he walks by. Phillip is exceptionally pleased with himself when he manages to suppress a flinch.

 

He meets the other man's eyes, forces himself to be unmoved by what he sees there. “Let me go, PT.”

 

“Phillip...”

 

“ _Now,_ ” he snarls as he rips his arm free forcefully enough to make Barnum stumble.

 

He stalks to the door, stops with his fingers on the doorknob and turns to regard Barnum over one shoulder. “And I think I'll be taking some time off, PT.”

 

“What...to do what?”

 

“Whatever I damn well please,” he growls as he opens the door. He shuts it hard, doesn't look back at the sight of Barnum, eyes wide and mouth open, reaching out with a beseeching hand. He marches across the circus grounds, blinking frigid rain out of his eyes, and doesn't look back at the office at all, for fear he might turn to salt if he did.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

“Phillip, it's quite clear your mental state has been afflicted for some time.”

 

“Thought was jus' th' circus you had'a problem with,” Phillip says dully, not bothering to turn his head to see Gilpin sitting beside him.

 

“As I've said, I conjecture that your willingness to...perform...at the circus does indicate an underdeveloped sense of self-regard, but I believe you joining the circus in the first place is evidence of your flawed cognition and a symptom of a larger disease of the mind.”

 

Phillip barks out a laugh.

 

“Please pay attention, Phillip. You've been ill for some time. How else do you explain your aberrant behaviors throughout the years?”

 

“What aber...ab...what behav'rs?” God, why is his face so numb? Why does it feel like the ceiling is sinking down on them, why isn't Gilpin concerned about _that?_

 

“Well, let's start with your excessive intemperance. Now, the prevailing theory has been that drunkenness is an indication of moral corruption, but I believe it to be simply another illness, rooted in erroneous brain functions. Wouldn't you agree that makes more sense, Phillip?”

 

That snaps Phillip out of his study of the crown molding he's sure is slipping toward him. He wants to protest, say his drinking is rooted in his failure to cope with his father's cold cruelty and his mother's apathy, in his inability to meet the expectations of his peers, to fit into the places he wants to, that if he'd been able to deal with the _corrections_ his father dispersed like a _real man_ he would have never fallen into a bottle and not come out for days at a time. But this idea of Gilpin's, that his worst vices might be something other than _entirely_ his fault, is too confusing and tempting for him to find any words.

 

“I see you're giving my idea serious thought, Phillip. That's encouraging. Surely you can see that if I am correct about this, my analysis of other aspects of your mental state, including your tendency to misjudge the intentions of others, has merit.”

 

“No, but...” Phillip sniffs, tries to remember Barnum's joyful face after the first show in their new tent by the docks, how PT had charged over when they were backstage and given him a bear hug so fierce the younger man's back had cracked, how they had laughed together in glee as the crowd cheered.

 

“Yes, Phillip,” Gilpin insists. “Your altered perceptions are part and parcel of the same ailment, the same mental disease.”

 

“No...that's...it can't...”

 

“I'm sorry, Phillip, but the sooner you accept this, the sooner you can rejoin society where you belong.” Gilpin pats Phillip's shoulder as he departs, and Phillip is so focused on taming his ragged breathing and tracking the orderly who comes to get Gilpin's chair, he almost doesn't notice that the doctor has left the room without administering another shot.

 


	14. Chapter 14

 

“So what's the deal, Barnum?” Lettie asks unceremoniously a few days later as she bursts into the office, shoving the door back so forcefully it protests on its hinges.

 

“Excuse me?” Barnum looks up from the Municipal Board of Health form he's ready to set on fire. Thank God Phillip usually does these, although right now the thought of his absent partner makes him want to throw something across the room.

 

“You and Carlyle, Barnum. What's the deal?” Lettie asks again as she sprawls across the crimson divan in the corner, feet dangling over the edge.

 

“The deal? Nothing. Phillip is just...attending to other matters.”

 

“Bullshit,” Lettie sing-songs and gives him a hard stare. “He holed up at your place, came back here with you dogging his every footstep, you got into a donnybrook they could hear up in Connecticut, and now no one knows where the boy is and you're not tearing the city apart to find him? Uh-uh. Don't buy it.”

 

“There's nothing to _buy_ Lettie, it's the truth.” He squints at the form in front of him. _Identification number of sponsoring foreign entity? What the hell does that even mean?_

 

“Look, Barnum, I don't know what went down. No one here does. All I know is, must have been some kind of awful to make Carlyle flinch every time some lout drops a box too loud, and you come up with raised fists whenever you see a strange face.”

 

Barnum sighs and pushes the form to the side. “What do you want me to say, Lettie? Need a bit of gossip to toss around the dressing rooms?” He regrets that as soon as he sees the cross look on Lettie's face. “I...sorry.” He's getting damned tired of throwing out apologizes, though he knows Lettie certainly deserves one.

 

“Don't worry about it, Barnum.” And he won't. If Lettie says it's water under the bridge, it absolutely is for her. “Ain't gonna ask you to share all the gory details. I'm guessing it's Carlyle's story to tell if it's anyone's.” Barnum nods, relieved. “But whatever it is that's going on between you two...hell, it's got me worried. Got everyone worried.”

 

“It's...complicated.” He laughs bitterly. “And I'm rather worried, too.”

 

That gets Lettie up from her slouch, and she settles her feet on the floorboards to look at Barnum head on. “And now I'm even _more_ worried, Barnum. So what is it exactly that's got you so twisted up – something you've done, or something he has?”

 

“Both,” Barnum replies. “Everything.” He wavers under Lettie's warm gaze. “Phillip is...dealing with some difficult things.”

 

Lettie chuckles a little. “When is he not?” She turns serious. “And what, you thought you'd keep him safe by putting some walls around him, and he charged right through 'em, brought the whole house down?”

 

“That's not...I didn't try to _imprison_ him Lettie.” But how close she is to getting to the heart of another issue.

 

“No? You didn't try to run his life, make his decisions for him?” Barnum sputters as Lettie continues. “Tell him what he wasn't allowed to do, maybe?”

 

Barnum curses. “Well...”

 

“Oh, land's sake, Barnum. You oughtta know better. Hell, what I remember of my ma trying to handle my baby brother before I left was the worst way to keep him from doing something was to tell him he couldn't. Then it became a damn challenge, 'stead of just a bad idea.”

 

“Phillip's not a _child,_ ” Barnum counters.

 

Lettie gives him one of her patented stares. “No, he isn't.”

 

Barnum can only laugh and shake his head. “I think I've made a terrible mistake, Lettie.”

 

She smiles. “Well, wouldn't be the first time, hmm?” At his dour look she continues. “But whatever it is, I know you can fix it. Find a way to make it work for you.” She stands up. “That's kind of your bailiwick, Barnum.”

 

Lettie starts for the door, pauses halfway there and turns around. “ 'sides, you know that boy would tear down the sky for you, don't you? It'll all work out.” She gives Barnum a wink before she pulls the door open again and shuts it quietly behind her.

 

Barnum knows Phillip would. He'd do the same. But he can't shake the sinking feeling that it's just not enough right now.

 


	15. Chapter 15

Phillip is not surprised to hear the knock at his apartment door a number of days into his self-imposed exile from the circus. He had half-expected Barnum to charge across the circus lot after him when he left, has in fact been waiting for the older man to beat down his door, is maybe a little impressed with the showman's patience that it's taken him this long.

 

He steels himself for a fight, straightens his waistcoat and pulls down the cuffs of his shirt even though the bruises have long since faded, before he paints a bland expression on his face and pulls open the door.

 

That expression turns to shock as soon as he sees his visitor. It's a Barnum, alright. Just not the one he was expecting.

 

“Charity?” He asks in disbelief.

 

“Hello Phillip.” She smiles at him softly. “It's good to see you.”

 

“I..ah...it's good to see you...too...”

 

“How are you, Philip?”

 

“I...I'm well...are...would you like to come in?” He finally finds the composure to ask.

 

“Yes, thank you.” He takes her coat as she enters, leads her to the couch in the small drawing room. He begs her leave to put on the kettle for tea, knows she prefers that to coffee any time after breakfast.

 

He returns while the water comes to a boil, sits on the other end of the sofa.

 

“I don't believe I've ever seen your apartment, Phillip,” she comments as she takes in the room.

 

“I...I suppose not. It's not much to see, I know. I apologize. Had I known you were coming I would have...” He gestures at the room around them. It's not dirty, or messy, so much as it is _empty_ , and sterile, the furniture utilitarian, the walls mostly unadorned. He never used to spend enough time in here to be bothered by that.

 

She gives him a calculating look. “Believe me, Phillip, this doesn't hold a candle to some of the hovels Phineas and I lived in after we got married.” That name takes Phillip aback, sends them into silence for a minute.

 

“He told me what happened.” Charity says. Phillip raises his eyebrows. “With the letter. Paying a visit to that doctor. He knows he shouldn't have done it.”

 

Phillip chuckles lowly. “Yes, but has PT knowing what he shouldn't do ever stopped him from doing it?”

 

Charity smiles. “Of course not.”

 

He meets her grin with a dull smile of his own. “I don't know how you put up with him for this long.”

 

She studies him then, hard enough that he glances away, out the nearby window. “Because I love him. We forgive a lot of the people we love. That's rather the point, I think.”

 

He's saved from having to respond by the whistle of the kettle. He excuses himself to the kitchen, pours the water into the pot and brings the set to the dressing room table on a tray.

 

“How are the girls?” He asks, desperate to change the subject.

 

“They're well. Missing you. As are we all.”

 

_Are you, though?_ _Why?_

 

“Everyone at the circus is asking after you. Have you spoken to anyone? To Anne?”

 

_Anne. Poor Anne. What must she be thinking of me, now?_

 

“I...I've let them know I'm taking some time off.” He replies feebly. Charity holds him in an even stare before relenting.

 

“Caroline's ballet recital is tomorrow night. I know she would love it if you were there.”

 

“Of course,” he replies. “I told her I would come. Wouldn't miss it for the world.”

 

“Good. And I know Phineas will be glad to see you, too.” Never let it be said that Charity Barnum wouldn't flog a dead horse if she had to.

 

“I...right,” is all he can muster in response, and he gets up to pour the tea. He has a cloudy memory of her doing the same, some time ago, in the kitchen of the Barnum household that night he'd stumbled there, drugged and dazed and desperate.

 

It reminds him of something he has yet to do, was not brave enough to do while under her roof. “I...I never thanked you.” She furrows her brow. “For taking me in, that night. For...taking care of me.” He hands her a mug, can't quite bring himself to meet her eyes.

 

“Oh, Phillip. You don't have to thank me for that. I'm glad you made it there. You know you're always welcome at our home.”

 

“Even in the middle of the night when I'm so unhinged I can barely remember my own name?” He mutters bitterly.

 

“ _Especially_ in the middle of the night when you're so unhinged you can barely remember your own name,” she replies, her conviction leaving him reeling.

 

“I still wanted to say thank you. To you.” _And PT,_ he doesn't say. _Did I ever even thank him?_

 

“Well, as I said, it's not necessary. But you're more than welcome, Phillip.”

 

They sit in a comfortable silence, drinking their tea, before something else from that night comes to Phillip.

 

“You said...when PT asked why...the doctors...you knew what they were treating me for.”

 

“They weren't _treating_ you for anything, Phillip,” she replies forcefully. “But.” She leans back, scans the titles on his bookshelf. “I'm not unfamiliar with some of the terms they told you.”

 

“Right. But you don't...you don't think there's anything...to that?”

 

That draws her gaze back to him, and he meets her eyes, holding his breath for what feels like forever. “Oh, Phillip,” she finally responds, and something in him breaks. “There's nothing wrong with being a little different, you know that. You need to do what feels right to you, what makes you happy.”

 

_But what if nothing feels right? What if I'm just not built to be happy?_

 

“Of course,” he says instead, and asks her how Caroline is getting along with the girls in her dance class, and how Helen's studies are going, and how on earth she managed to resist taking the carving knife and stabbing the hostess at Mrs. Forepaugh's most recent benefit luncheon.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, we made it past the half-way point! Thanks for sticking around.


	16. Chapter 16

“Helen, please leave that poor frog alone,” Charity calls out as her youngest nearly lands in a puddle of mud in her quest to capture an elusive amphibian.

 

“And maybe step _around_ that mud instead of charging _through_ it?” Barnum adds from his spot on the park bench beside her. “Like you always do,” he comments under his breath.

 

“Phin,” Charity chides.

 

“Tell me I'm wrong,” he says. Charity shakes her head. “They're going to be covered in muck by the time we're done,” he notes, watching Caroline swing from a low tree branch.

 

“This is the nicest day we've had in weeks,” Charity counters, even though the low gray clouds are threatening rain again. “They need to get out of the house and run around. Besides, since when are you concerned about them keeping their dresses clean?”

 

“Just trying to be a responsible parent,” Barnum says without conviction, and Charity ignores him.

 

“We have plenty of time to change before we have to leave for the recital,” Charity tells her husband. He responds with a grunt. “Phillip told me he would be there.” That turns Barnum's head.

 

“What?”

 

“Helen's already told me she gets to sit next to him.”

 

“He's coming?” Charity nods. “How do you know?”

 

“I went to see him yesterday.”

 

“What? Why did you do that?” Barnum watches Helen jump up, trying to reach the barren bough her sister is swinging from.

 

“Because I wanted to,” Charity replies.

 

“Charity!” Helen's grasping fingers just miss the tree limb, and Caroline takes one hand off to make a face at her sister.

 

“What?”

 

“You told me I needed to give him _space_.” And now Helen's tugging at Caroline's legs, trying to dislodge her.

 

“You do. You are,” Charity reassures him. “I just wanted to make sure in the meantime he was...well...I wanted to remind him about the recital.”

 

“How was he?” Caroline drops down from the branch with a yelp, and scowls at her younger sister.

 

“Fine.”

 

“Charity.” But now Caroline is linking her hands together, giving Helen a boost up to grab the branch.

 

“He's fine, Phin. No bottles strewn around the room, the curtains were open, he looked as immaculate as ever.”

 

“Did he say...never mind.” Once Helen's secured, Caroline jumps up to join her and the limb bows under the combined weight of the Barnum sisters.

 

“We didn't really talk about you,” Charity tells him.

 

“Right.” They're both bouncing on the branch, swinging back and forth and giggling.

 

“I'm sure he misses you.”

 

“I'm not.” Helen lets go with one hand to wave at him and nearly loses her grip on the damp bark.

 

“Phin. Of course he does. And you miss him.”

 

“You know, I didn't expect this much grief when I started the circus.” Barnum returns the wave.

 

“You didn't expect this much love, either.”

 

“Certainly not this much responsibility. I never set out to be pater familias of an entire troupe of oddities.” Caroline starts waving too.

 

“But you wouldn't trade it for the world, don't tell me otherwise.”

 

“Some days...” He watches his joyful girls, listens to their bright laughter. “It's not easy.”

 

“It's not supposed to be. That doesn't mean it isn't good. Or right,” Charity reminds him.

 

“I have no idea what to say to him.” Much as that admission costs him, he feels lighter for having let it go.

 

“You'll think of something. He'll come back.”

 

“No, you would come back. Those girls,” he motions to Caroline and Helen, who have abandoned the tree are are combing over loose sticks for a purpose unknown, “they would come back. Because they know they belong.”

 

“You don't think he does?”

 

“I don't know what goes on in his head most of the time.” Weapons selected, the sisters square off.

 

“You know better than you think. You probably know better than anyone else, too.”

  


“Well, I do know if he's gone from the circus for much longer we're going to have a revolt on our hands.” Helen leaps forward with a wild swing that Caroline easily evades.

 

“We? Oh no, darling, that's all on you.”

 

“You are the worst wife...” And maybe he's not the greatest father for not intervening in the fencing match going on in front of him, but it doesn't look like the girls are trying to hit each other too hard. Mostly. “But really, how was he?”

 

“He was...he just...seemed a little lost.”

 

“He was in his own apartment. How could he be lost?” Then Caroline nails Helen on the shoulder, and the younger Barnum drops her stick as her face scrunches up.

 

“Do you remember, what he told us the doctors said to him, about why they were treating him? He asked me if I thought there was any truth there.”

 

“I hope you told him where those quacks could stuff their diagnoses.” Caroline rushes over to her sister's side, starts rubbing Helen's shoulder apologetically.

 

“Of course I did. But...maybe there's something there he does believe.”

 

“How the hell could he believe any of it?” But Barnum can answer that question himself, knows decades of being told that you're wrong, or not good enough, or that you don't belong, can leave an awful hole in a person.

 

“I'll try to talk to him tonight, at the recital.” He looks at his pocket watch. “Speaking of...girls!” He calls out. Helen sniffles a few times then raises her chin, and Caroline entwines her arm with her sister's. “Time to go! You need to get ready, Caroline.”

 

“That's probably a good idea, Phin,” Charity tells him as she surreptitiously inspects Helen's shoulder once the girls have reached the bench and shrugs at him. “Someone has to keep this brood in line.”

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'd be forgiven for thinking not a whole lot has happened in the past few chapters. Hopefully that's about to change.

 

Phillip spends the day following Charity's visit stalking the halls of his small apartment, pulling down books and plays to read a few pages before conceding defeat and replacing them on the shelves. He refolds ties, wipes down pristine counter tops, looks out the kitchen window and resolutely does not think about that bottle of whiskey in his cabinet.

 

He has less success ignoring the letter burrowed in the left pocket of his coat. It's been there since he quickly skimmed it on the way home after storming out of the office at the circus, and every time he walks by the coat stand in the hallway his stride slows and stutters.

 

_You can't pay attention to any of it,_ PT had said.

 

He's a grown man. He'll pay attention to whatever he sees fit.

 

_You've been ill for some time,_ Gilpin had said.

 

One of them must be wrong. But for the life of him, he cannot see who.

 

He stalks to the coat, pulls the envelope out of the pocket. He fingers the corners, rubs his thumb along the return address. PT said it was an accident. He traces the open edge. Maybe it was, too. God knows when Barnum's deep in paperwork he doesn't always pay attention to the finer details. He puts the envelope back, prowls into the kitchen.

 

Phillip stops in front of that narrow cabinet by the window. He doesn't need to open it to see the bottle inside. When had he bought it, anyway? After reading about Barnum's latest exploits in Pittsburgh, or Cleveland, or was it Boston, with Miss Lind? Longer ago, even, before he'd matched Barnum shot for shot at that tavern (though he knows now that was never a contest he was going to win, not when the other side was playing anything but fair), before he'd ever even heard about that _depraved ruffian_ and his _perverse spectacle?_

 

_You can't see him again,_ Barnum had said. But reading the letter, that sure as hell hadn't been an accident, and where did Barnum get the nerve to go and see the doctor himself, talk about Phillip with the man, without so much as a by-your-leave?

 

_You'll feel better soon enough._ Who had said that, again?

 

He drums his fingers against the cabinet pull.

 

_Simply another illness._ That was definitely Gilpin.

 

He looks from the cabinet door, to his coat in the hallway, back to the cabinet.

 

He walks to the doorway, pulls his coat on and reaches down into the pocket to feel the envelope, the smooth grain of the expensive stationary beneath his fingers.

 

Barnum will be furious. And somehow, that does nothing to stop him, puts more conviction in his step as he exits the apartment and locks the door behind him.

 

PT would be worried too, beside himself with concern, and that makes Phillip halt on the tiled floor in the hallway. But then he focuses on Barnum's stern refusal to countenance the idea of him meeting with his parents or Gilpin, on him reading Phillip's letter, on him leaving on tour with Miss Lind despite everything Phillip had done to try to make him stay.

 

Still, he looks back at his door, debates returning to his apartment, tossing his coat on the kitchen chair and polishing that bottle off in one swallow.

 

The bottle.

 

The envelope.

 

Caught between two demons, he chooses the novel one.

 

* * *

 

He doesn't have an appointment, of course, but when he tells the nervous assistant behind the desk in Gilpin's reception area that Phillip Carlyle is here to meet with the doctor, he's shown right into the office.

 

Gilpin is sitting behind his desk, and doesn't get up to shake Phillip's hand. He gestures to the long, low couch on the opposite side of the room, invites Phillip to take a seat.

 

“I'll stand,” Phillip replies.

 

“Very well,” Gilpin says. “What can I do for you, Phillip?”

 

Phillip snorts. “ _You_ asked _me_ to come here, Doctor.”

 

“I suggested you reflect on our previous conversations, and recommended coming to my office if you believed some of those issues were worth further discussion. As you have done. So I must conclude you do indeed believe some aspect of my diagnosis deserves more consideration.”

 

“The people at the circus aren't trying to take _advantage_ of me,” Phillip snarls.

 

“Hmm. Mr. Barnum suggested something similar. I see he's not with you today.”

 

“That's...he's...I hardly need him to speak for me,” Phillip scrambles.

 

“I am surprised, after his behavior earlier. Is there a reason he is absent?” Gilpin asks.

 

“What...he...” Phillip shakes his head. “No. I don't have to answer any of your questions.”

 

“Then did you have any questions for me?” Gilpin's calm only infuriates Phillip.

 

“Why did...why did you _do_ that to me?”

 

“Do what to you, Phillip?”

 

_How on earth did PT resist the urge to punch you in the throat?_ “Why did you lock me in my goddamn room and _drug_ me?” He asks instead.

 

“The injections were intended to increase your receptivity to more realistic interpretations of your circumstances. I can see now that they did not perform as anticipated.”

 

Phillip almost chokes. _Receptive?_ When he'd been so terrified upon waking over and over in that house, when he'd felt nothing but shock and fury and panic every time one of those orderlies held him down, when he'd been so trapped and _helpless_ and he _couldn't breathe?_

 

“They made me...I couldn't...I could barely _move!_ I hardly even knew where I was! How was that supposed to help me think?”

 

“I have had success with that treatment program previously. Had you remained in my care, I would have employed a different approach going forward.”

 

Phillip scoffs. “Oh, is that when you would have drilled into my head?”

 

Gilpin shakes his head this time. “No, Phillip. The trepanning is only intended to pierce the skull. It can help to relieve pressure from an inflamed brain, which the latest research suggests may be one cause of conditions such as yours. And it is in any case a treatment of last resort.”

 

_And how would you know when to stop?_ Phillip laughs. “Conditions such as mine?”

 

Gilpin nods earnestly. “Yes, Phillip. Your melancholia. Your pernicious drinking. Both of which stymie your ability to have healthy, normal relationships, especially with those to whom you wish you could be close. Do you disagree with that diagnosis?”

 

“I...” Phillip stammers.

 

“I'll take that as a yes, Phillip.”

 

Phillip summons up every bit of composure he has left. “Fine. But the other things you said...about the circus...about the people there...it's not true. It can't be. The circus is the best thing that ever happened to me.”

 

Gilpin steeples his fingers and considers Phillip for a long moment. “If the circus is the best thing to ever happen to you, Phillip, if everyone there truly cares about you, if they are as concerned with your well-being as you seem to think they are, if that is truly where you belong, why are you standing in my office right now of your own free will? Alone?”

 

That hits like a fist to the gut. “I...”

 

“Without treatment, you will never be able to change your worst habits. You will continue to make the same mistakes, over and over, until the weight of the consequences of your decisions buries you alive.”

 

“You're wrong,” Phillip rasps out through a swollen throat.

 

“I will concede I initially misjudged some aspects of your case, Phillip. Perhaps I should have tried a different approach from the beginning. But about this I am certain: if you do not recognize the inherent flaws in your cognition, if you do not return to your proper place in society, you will never remedy what ails you.”

 

“No,” Phillip begs. “I won't leave.”

 

Gilpin leans back in his chair. “Then you can't get better, Phillip. You never will,” he says as he returns to the documents at his desk, a clear dismissal if Phillip's ever seen one.

 

Phillip stands there for a minute, panting, staring at the top of Gilpin's bowed head. He turns on his heel and leaves the office without a word.

 

The walls and windows start to swim in his vision as he stumbles down the hallway to the stairwell. Two blurry figures come up the steps, and he freezes in his tracks when they're close enough for him to make out.

 

The first orderly, the one without the broken nose, slows his pace as he meets Phillip's eyes. He drops his gaze quickly and rubs his hands together, and Phillip remembers _those fingers_ around his throat, holding him against his parents' dining table _and there was no air_. He slides along the hallway past Phillip, putting as much distance between them as possible.

 

The other one smiles coldly as he approaches. He's right next to Phillip when he leans in, close enough for Phillip to see the kink in his nose, hear his breathing, pick up a scent that leaves the phantom impression of fingernails digging into the back of his neck.

 

“Missed you, kitten,” he calls, air puffing through Phillip's hair, down his collar. “Pity you left so soon. Doc's needles would'a felt like a whore's kiss if I'd caught you crawling outta that room.” He chuckles and walks on, shuts the door to Gilpin's office behind him.

 

Phillip bites his lips together, heaving through his nose, heart pounding, before he bolts down the stairs, out the hallway, and into the street.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He makes a stop on his way home. It's the store on the corner two blocks away from his apartment. He hasn't been there in ages, but it's the same clerk, the one he always saw when he'd come stumbling home from another reception with his parents, another opening night for a show he hated. The man barely looks up as Phillip places the bottle on the counter and drops what he knows is the right number of coins beside it.

 

He rips off his coat when he gets in the apartment, tosses it to the floor. He stalks to the small table in the kitchen, sets the bottle down, and takes a seat. He doesn't bother getting up to grab a glass before he uncorks the bottle.

 

Caught between two demons, he chooses them both.

 


	18. Chapter 18

Phillip wakes again in the dim room in his parents' house, Gilpin's words still ringing in his ears. Once he can gather himself, drive Gilpin's voice from his mind for more than a moment, he tries to lever himself upright. He gets halfway there before his body gives up and he flops back down with a groan.

 

He breathes through his nose for a few minutes, head screaming and stomach roiling, then shuffles his elbows until he can push up a few inches. He's finally able to ease himself up to his palms, the bruises on his forearms pulsing as his weight shifts.

 

It takes him another minute or two until he's able to swing one leg, then the other, over the edge of the bed. He looks down at his knees and for the first time realizes he's wearing nightclothes.

 

 _When did that happen?_ He certainly can't recall changing, and the thought of that orderly, the one with the broken nose, taking off his suspenders and shirt and _trousers_ makes his breath come fast and heavy.

 

He shakes his head to clear the image, and regrets it when the room spins. The vertigo sends him pitching to the side and he bangs his shoulder against the ornate headboard. He traces his fingers over, grips the lacquered wood and carefully hauls himself to his feet. He walks his hands along the wall to guide his trembling body to the door. The knob moves under his hand but the door doesn't.

 

 _Locked._ Of course. How could he forget that the door to his childhood bedroom locked from the outside? How young was he before he knew there was no point in trying?

 

 _There's always a way to spin a situation to your benefit, Phillip,_ he dimly recalls Barnum's voice from that time he'd complained about the outrageous quote for a new animal enclosure he'd gotten from their contractor. _You know what they say about closed doors and open windows!_

 

 _The problem is that we don't have walls, PT. And what kind of window works for an elephant?_ He'd asked, and Barnum had just laughed and thrown peanut shells at him.

 

 _Windows._ He looks at the other side of the room, at the heavy blue curtains blocking out the sunlight. That throws him. He's sure it was dark, the last time he remembers being awake.

 

He makes it halfway to that window when he hears a key twisting in the lock behind him. He looks dumbly at the door as it opens and a thin sliver of light spills across the floor.

 

“Would you please return to your bed now, Phillip?” Gilpin is the picture of composure. Phillip stands, defiant, calculating his odds of successfully bum-rushing the doctor.

 

The orderly with the bandaged nose appears from the shadows behind Gilpin before Phillip can decide, however, and in one stride is in front of Phillip, clutching his elbow. Phillip tugs his arm, scrabbles for purchase on the rug as the orderly spins him roughly, grabs the back of his neck.

 

Phillip kicks out, lashes back with one arm, but he might as well be trying to resist the pull of gravity and he's on his stomach on the bed, a steel beam pressing down on his back and it smells like clean linen and goose down and then his face is in the pillow and he _can't breathe,_ can't scream, can't beg for air _._

 

Gilpin must issue some command. The pressure on the back of his neck lifts and he turns his head to the side, sputtering, as the orderly moves away.

 

His chest heaves while the other orderly comes forward to set Gilpin's chair down next to the bed and retreat to his station by the door. Gilpin steps to the thick curtains, pulls one back halfway to bathe the room in hazy light. He takes his seat, sets a case down by his feet.

 

“Hello Phillip. How are you feeling today?”

 

Phillip says nothing, just stares at the doctor with one eye.

 

“Phillip. I asked you a question.” When he gets no response, Gilpin leans over and opens a clasp on the case.

 

“Fine,” Phillip grumbles. Gilpin tilts his head expectantly. “Thank you.”

 

Gilpin sits back, smiles. “There. That's better.” He rubs his mustache. “Now, Phillip, as you raised the topic in an earlier session, I'd like to discuss your parents today.”

 

“What?” Phillip asks, rolling his head to get a better look at the doctor.

 

“Yes. You asked where they were earlier. Do you recall that?”

 

Phillip swallows, nods against the pillow.

 

“Good. As I said then, it is perfectly normal to seek paternal guidance in times of mental upheaval.”

 

Phillip stifles a laugh.

 

“Yes. Now, Phillip, why do you think your parents first reached out to me to see if I was interested in treating you?”

 

_Interested? What sordid tale did they spin, to pique your interest? Or did they just tell you the truth?_

 

“Dunno,” he replies.

 

Gilpin sighs. “Please, Phillip. Try to give this a little more consideration. I've reduced your doses so that our conversations will be more effective, but if that approach is not working we can return to the previous regimen.”

 

 _And I won't be able to feel my own fingers, let alone get out of this bed._ “I...they don't approve of my choices.”

 

“They are worried about you, and the consequences of your decisions, Phillip. I'm sure you agree that this level of concern is a sign of normal, engaged parents.”

 

Phillip hums.

 

“What about your decisions, specifically, do you think they are concerned about?”

 

 _How all their so-called society friends whisper behind their backs about their disgraceful, debauched, disowned heir?_ “I...I don't know.”

 

“I can tell you are giving this some thought. That's good, Phillip. They are concerned about how damaging your decisions are to your future prospects. I know they're also worried about the influence the...unrefined elements...at the circus have on you.”

 

_Because I dared to be seen in public with someone whose skin is a different shade than mine? Because I consider the foulest-mouthed, shortest-statured man I've ever met one of my closest friends? Because I know I have more to learn from a poor tailor's son who can tell how miserable, how desperate a person is with one look, than from every tutor and instructor I ever had?_

 

“Influence...?”

 

“Yes, and I know they are also concerned that those elements are simply taking advantage of a misguided, ill young man.”

 

“Not...ill...”

 

Gilpin pinches the bridge of his nose. “I understand this is hard for you to comprehend in your current state. But would you prefer to believe that your debauchery, your social deviance, is a product of moral decrepitude, rather than illness? That your melancholia since childhood is due to a lack of personal fortitude, rather than because of a disordered brain?”

 

“I...I...” And what if all of that, what if all that time he spent not wanting to get out of bed, not wanting to see the sunlight outside his room, not wanting anything but the taste of whiskey in his mouth, really was because he was _sick_ , not _weak_?

 

And if he was wrong about that for so long, what else could he have been wrong about, be wrong about now? But the other things Gilpin is saying, how can those be true...

 

“Yes, and unfortunately there are too many dishonest individuals who are all too eager to take advantage of vulnerable populations. Individuals who peddle perversion, who seek to misguide and hoodwink others for financial gain. I am certain you know of whom I speak.”

 

That makes Phillip's hands fist in the sheets, and it's a good thing his tongue is still woolly. It keeps him from saying anything else before Gilpin continues.

 

“Of course, the role of parents is to guide their children to the right way, to protect them, even from themselves.”

 

Protect them...

 

“I hope you see that's what your parents are doing now. Protecting you from corrupting influences, such as those you are exposed to at the circus.”

 

Protect him.

 

“Protecting you from your own bad impulses, your own flawed thinking, doing whatever they need to keep you safe.”

 

He knows someone who would do anything to keep him safe.

 

“Ensuring you are able to live a healthy, productive life, even if it requires keeping you in this room until you are well.”

 

Who would tear down his walls, not build more around him.

 

“I'm confident at some point you will appreciate what your father is doing for you.”

 

And it for damn sure isn't his father.

 

He needs to get out of this room. Now.

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

Phillip doesn't hear the door open. He's sprawled on the floor of his kitchen, back to the lower cabinets, empty whiskey bottle in pieces on the floor around him. He doesn't know when he finished it, but he does remember throwing it to the floor in a rage sometime after, hoping the crash of the glass shattering would drive the sound of Gilpin's voice from his head. It hadn't.

 

It's only when someone lights a lamp to chase away the shadows in his dark apartment that he looks up.

 

“Ah, Phillip,” Barnum says sadly.

 

Phillip blinks at him a few times. “ 'ow'd you get in?”

 

“Your door was unlocked, Phillip.”

 

“Oh. Th'ght I locked that...” Were he a little more coherent, the thought of having been in his apartment with the door unlocked for all that time would make him break out in a cold sweat. Right now, it barely phases him.

 

“Well,” Barnum sighs, “you didn't.” He takes in Phillip's slumped figure, the shards of glass islanding him in the middle of the kitchen. “I see you've been busy.”

 

Phillip snorts. “Sure have.”

 

“You missed Caroline's recital tonight.”

 

“Oh,” Phillip says dumbly, that realization enough to pierce his fugue with bitter shame. “ 'm sorry. That why you came?”

 

“I came to make sure you were...you hadn't...I came.” Phillip watches Barnum's feet tread carefully around the shattered glass. “Phillip, why are you...why did you...you've been doing so well.”

 

“Have I?”

 

Barnum takes off his hat, expertly flicks it onto the kitchen table. “Yes. I haven't seen you like this since...”

 

Phillip laughs out loud. “Since tha' night you thought I was drunk outta m' mind? Least you're right 'bout me this time.”

 

Barnum winces. “I'm sorry I made that assumption then, Phillip. But...Charity saw you yesterday. She said you seemed...fine enough, at least.”

 

“Sendin' your wife to spy on me now, PT?”

 

Barnum scowls. “No, Phillip, she came of her own volition. She was worried about you. And it looks like she had reason to be.”

 

“Oh. 'm fine. Right 's rain. Peachy.”

 

“Really.” Barnum rolls his eyes, turns to regard the kitchen floor. “And what did that bottle do to you?”

 

“Was an accident,” Phillip lies.

 

“Ah. I happen to know something about unfortunate accidents myself.”

 

“Sure, PT. Was an accident.” And somewhere in his drink-addled mind, he can recall the look on Barnum's face, watching him storm out the office door at the circus. It almost makes him groan, now.

 

Barnum picks his way around the glass to crouch beside Phillip. “It was, Phillip. What happened after wasn't. And I'm sorry about that.”

 

“What'd you talk 'bout, anyway?”

 

Barnum rubs his jaw. “I'd rather have this conversation when I think you'll be able to remember it the next day, Phillip.”

 

“ 'cause we talked about you. Maybe. 'm not sure...” Phillip can't quite remember if he had talked about Barnum with Gilpin earlier today, or if Barnum's role in his life has simply gotten so large it casts a shadow over everything else.

 

Barnum's eyes widen. “Phillip, you went there? Why?” Phillip hates that look.

 

Phillip shrugs. “Does it matter?”

 

“Yes, Phillip, it does! It matters very much! To me, at least. Phillip...did he...” It takes Phillip a moment to realize Barnum is motioning towards Phillip's arm, to the skin inside his elbow where the needle marks have faded. Phillip knows. He looks for them every day. He thinks part of him is saddened by their absence.

 

“Oh,” Phillip says dumbly. “No. s'all me this time.”

 

Barnum looks up to the ceiling, blinking, then lowers his head to regard Phillip again. “Why did you go?”

 

“Went 'cause...'cause...hmm. 'm pretty messed up, PT.”

 

“Well, you've had a fair bit to drink. And you haven't been drinking much lately, so I'm sure – ”

 

“No, PT...'m,” Phillip gestures clumsily around him, to his empty apartment, to the broken bottle pieces strewn across the floor, to Barnum, back to his own head. “ 'm pretty messed up. 'n general.”

 

“Ah,” Barnum responds. “Phillip, after the shit you've been through lately, I think you're entitled to be a little messed up.”

 

“Not jus'...what happened. It's me. 'lways has been. Jus' something wrong. Jus'...me.” And it's not only the alcohol that's making Phillip's vision blurry, his stomach churn.

 

Barnum doesn't reply. Phillip's too focused on controlling his breathing, on not slumping over sideways into the glass, to see PT get up, isn't aware of that change until Barnum returns with a broom and starts sweeping up the floor.

 

He watches the bristles move, back and forth, until the remnants of his fury have disappeared. The room continues to swirl around him as Barnum walks away after.

 

He closes his eyes, finally, and he isn't certain if he's imagining someone's hand on his head, a soft voice murmuring _nothing wrong with you_ , before the world tilts a little further and he spirals down into blackness.

 

* * *

 

It takes him some time, upon awakening, to realize he's in his own bed. The curtains have been drawn, and he blearily makes out the halo of light around their edges that proves the night is over.

 

He can't tell how long he lies there, waiting for the ache in his head to dull enough that he's able to even think about getting out of bed. He manages it, eventually, sits on the edge of the bed listening to the silence in his apartment. He doesn't hear Barnum moving around anywhere. He's not sure how he feels about that.

 

Eventually, he's able to stagger out of the bedroom, and he checks the other rooms to find them empty. He stops at the threshold of the kitchen and sees no evidence of last night's events. The floor is clean, his coat is on the rack next to the door, and everything on the counters has been set back to rights. He glances around the room before his eyes are drawn to that narrow cupboard, where the old bottle of whiskey he never touched last night hides.

 

He shuffles to the far end of the kitchen and slowly opens the door. He's not surprised to find the cabinet empty.

 

_PT._

 

He turns back to the table, eases himself into a chair. There's a pitcher of water there, and a large tumbler. It's an excellent suggestion, and he pours himself a glass, gingerly sips at it for a minute. There's a loaf of bread on the table too, wrapped in paper, from that bakery just down the street where he used to pick up breakfast on his way into the circus. He's not ready for any food yet, but maybe in a few hours.

 

And on the table, next to the bread, is a key he knows unlocks the front door of the Barnum home.

 


	20. Chapter 20

Phillip seemed lost, Charity had told him. Barnum's pretty sure he knows the feeling, now.

 

He'd thought about dragging Phillip home that night, tossing the younger man's limp body over one shoulder and carrying him the whole way. Or dumping him into the nearest body of cold water. Tempting as that thought had been, however, he'd known it wasn't the right approach.

 

At least, he knew it was the wrong approach. He has no idea what the right approach is, anymore.

 

He'd tried to step in before, tried to steer Phillip toward better decisions, tried to deal with his problems for him. That hadn't worked.

 

Now he's left the younger man to his own devices. His own vices. And he's fairly certain that isn't working too well either.

 

He's doesn't know why he left his key at Phillip's apartment, what message he had been trying to send. To make sure Phillip knew his visit there wasn't the product of a drunken delirium? To tell Phillip that whatever happened next between them, it would be Phillip's decision and no one else's? To let Phillip know he's the first thing Barnum thinks of when he wakes in the morning these days, the last thing he worries about before he falls asleep at night? When he manages to sleep, that is.

 

(He knows exactly why he left the key there that night. But he's never been good at admitting when a situation is out of his hands.)

 

He'd give anything to fix this. He doesn't think he has anything left to give. 

 

If he'd been better at peering into Phillip's mind before, maybe he might have stopped himself from going to visit Gilpin, from so badly botching that conversation with Phillip after

 

Or perhaps could he have done more long before that, before Phillip had ever thought to visit his parents. And why hadn't his partner _told him_ , given Barnum the chance to talk Phillip out of it, at least let him know when he was going, so Barnum could have gotten him out of that house sooner? So Barnum could have gotten him out at all, instead of leaving Phillip to concoct his own escape plan?

 

He's not unfamiliar with the weight of guilt. That's why he's still able to get out of bed every morning, go to the circus every day, do the needful, kiss his wife and play with his girls when he gets home.

 

That's why he's at his desk on a dreary Wednesday morning when Charles charges in.

 

“Barnum,” the world's shortest General grunts at him.

 

“Charles. What can I do for you?”

 

“What the hell, Barnum?” Charles has always had presence, the ability to draw all eyes in a room to him, not because of his stature, but because of his bearing, his voice, that gunpowder flash in his eyes.

 

“Could you be a little more specific, please?” But Barnum is too numbed to be moved now, and he continues to scribble numbers in the circus ledger.

 

“You've got to do something about this,” Charles says.

 

“About what?”

 

Charles scowls. “For fuck's sake, Barnum. _This._ You. Carlyle. The circus. Letts is beside herself, Anne's skulking around like a kicked puppy, hell I think even the animals are getting sick of this shit.”

 

“And what do you propose I do, exactly, Charles?” Barnum asks coolly.

 

“Hell if I know. You're the man with the plan, generally.”

 

“Don't have a plan for this,” Barnum grumbles. Charles gapes at him.

 

“Well, make one.”

 

“Don't you think if I knew what to do in this situation I would _fucking do it,_ Charles?” He shouts. Charles rocks back on his heels, eyes wide, and Barnum realizes this is the first time he's _ever_ yelled at one of his performers, the first time he's yelled at someone in his office since...

 

“I...I know you would, Barnum,” and that's probably the softest tone Charles has ever used around him. Around anyone.

 

“Shit. Charles. I'm sorry.” He drops his head into a hand, rubs at his temples.

 

“You look like hell,” Charles answers, and Barnum knows he's been forgiven.

 

“Thank you, Charles, you're too kind.”

 

“Have you seen him lately, at least?”

 

Barnum needs no clarification. “Yes, I have.”

 

“How was he?” And Charles gets his answer when Barnum says nothing, looks down at his hands pressed flat against his desk. “Do you...think he's coming back?”

 

“I hope so,” Barnum rasps out of a swollen throat.

 

Charles shifts between his feet before settling, squaring his shoulders, and staring Barnum head on. “He will. You'll figure it out.”

 

“That I had your faith, Charles,” Barnum says lowly.

 

“Ain't faith.” Charles is gathering steam. “You got all the rest of us here, didn't you? Got a bunch of people who were damn good at hiding to stand up in front of a crowd, even if they didn't know they wanted to. Maybe you made a few mistakes along the way,” and now Barnum knows he must look terrible, because why else would Charles be _this_ nice to him, “but you got it right in the end.”

 

“I...”

 

“Plus, pretty sure whatever happened ain't your fault, Barnum. You're just trying to fix up something some other asshole broke a long time ago.”

 

When, exactly, did all of his oddities get so damned _perceptive,_ Barnum wonders. Or had they always been that way, and it just took him far too long to realize it?

 

“I hope this is something that can be fixed.” And since when did he become so damned _honest?_ What happened to his uncanny ability to dodge sincerity, to deflect scrutiny, to dispense humbug as though it were so much candy?

 

“If anyone can fix it, suspect it's you, Barnum.” Maybe he lost it when he no longer needed it, shrugged it off like a heavy coat on a warm spring day.

 

“Charles...”

 

“Now, can we talk about that slop they're shoveling out at the mess tent? Would it kill you to spring for some _actual_ meat, or at least a cook who knows what end of the pig to put on the table? They say it's pork, but it tastes like rubbish, and we're all wondering what happened to those strays that used to hang around by the gates...”

 

And Charles's cheek, at least, is a problem Barnum is well equipped to handle.

 

* * *

 

Phillip puts the key in his coat pocket, the one without Gilpin's letter. He'll reach down to feel it when he's walking around the city, when he catches sight of his pale, drawn reflection in a nearby window, whenever he feels that need to go find the nearest bottle pulling at his gut.

 

He goes to bookstores instead, but where he would once peruse the new novels and old plays, he now scans the shelves on medicine, the meager offerings on the nascent study of the human brain. He is buoyed when he first learns about moral treatment, and its promise of a personalized approach, of a _cure_ , but the idea of re-education, its exhortation for patients to reassume their 'normal place' in society make him shove the books back into place on the shelf hard enough that he gets dirty looks from the shop clerks.

 

Then he makes the mistake of delving into accounts of events at Bethlehem Royal Hospital, of doctors and workers pocketing fees from curious visitors, of chains and locked cell doors, and he has to run out to the street and duck in the nearest alley to slide down to the dirt until his vision clears and he can breathe without wheezing.

 

That makes him take the key out of his pocket, worry it between his fingers like a talisman, squeeze it as though he could tattoo the impression into his palm.

 

Having lost his appetite for research, he walks the city streets at all hours of the day instead, until his legs ache and his feet throb. He gets to the edge of the neighborhood where the Carlyle estate lies, but can't bring himself to come any closer. He avoids the docks, anywhere he might even risk a glimpse of the big top between tall buildings.

 

He eats little, sleeps less, and doesn't have a drop to drink. He wonders how he ever filled the days before he started drinking, what he could have done with his free time before joining the circus.

 

He doesn't think about PT. Or every time he does, he reaches down and grips that key hard, until the pointed edges dig into his skin. His sleep-starved mind cannot determine what the key means. If it's a test, a demand, a reminder, a warning, an invitation. If it's all of those.

 

And then one drizzly day, after an insomnolent night pierced by foggy recollections of needles, of his lungs screaming for air, of an even voice intoning _you can't get better,_  his feet carry him to the edge of the Upper Bay. He stops on an empty pier, watches dark clouds rumble above choppy waves.

 

He takes out the key, weighs in in one hand, then the other. He looks down at the murky water again, up to the gray sky, clutches that key hard, and makes a choice.

 


	21. Chapter 21

Phillip isn't sure how many hours pass between Gilpin's visits, but at least this time he _thinks_ he's conscious for most of them. He stumbles to the door, tries the knob again, then staggers to the window and carefully peels back one of the curtains to look at the grounds below.

 

_Far below. Shit._

 

He'd been an adventurous child once, before his mother's exasperation and his father's iron grip had purged most of his desire to explore the world – to find the scintillating and the novel – from him.

 

He would run around the grounds with his older brother, hiding in the azaleas and jumping over the puddles that collected on the terrace after a rainy night, before fever had taken Richard, and whatever lightness and spirit the Carlyle estate once held with him.

 

But he remembers Richard once, running ahead of him and laughing, pulling himself up on the trellis on the west side of the house just beyond the reach of Phillip's grasping fingers. Phillip had wrapped his hands around the wooden slats, yelled and smiled up at his older brother. Before he could start to climb up after, Richard's tutor stormed around the side of the house, shouting and waving his hands so wildly Phillip had worried the man would accidentally strike himself.

 

Richard jumped down as soon as the man spotted him, was the face of contrition when the tutor loudly and thoroughly elucidated the importance of Latin grammar for any self-respecting, successful, productive member of society. But as soon as his tutor had turned back to the house, expecting his pupil to fall in step behind him, Richard had blown a raspberry at the man's back and turned to wink at Phillip as he passed.

 

Phillip peers down at the twisting vines below the window. The trellis is decades old, probably rotting, and he's certain it hasn't been replaced since he lived here. His mother adores the blooms, and has sought to change the Carlyle estate as little as possible since her beloved eldest son's passing.

 

_Sometimes, Phillip, you just have to have a little faith,_ Barnum has told him more times than he can count. And almost every time, he's responded with something akin to _I don't think you know what the word 'little' means_.

 

But. Still. _A little faith._

 

He's back in the bed when Gilpin and one of the orderlies enter, the latter carrying a tray, with water and toast and preserves.

 

He doesn't want a single mouthful of what they've brought, but he takes a drink of the water to placate the doctor, begs off the food, citing a sour stomach. He's demure and docile when Gilpin asks his questions – it isn't too hard, because his mind and body still feel like he's partially submerged in some murky, viscous substance – and bites his tongue at the doctor's speculation about the potential maladies of other members of the circus.

 

Gilpin leaves, and Phillip waits until well past dark, until the sliver of light he can see under the bedroom door has disappeared, and he hasn't heard any footfalls outside the room for hours.

 

He tiptoes to the window, or tries to, toes catching a little on the rug when he can't seem to lift his feet more than an inch. He pulls back the curtain and watches for several minutes. The window thankfully doesn't creak as he opens it, bit by bit, until it's wide enough that he can stick his head and chest out. He sprawls over the sill, toes reaching carefully for any hold. Anne would be much better at this, much more graceful, and he desperately wishes she were here right now to laugh at his clumsiness.

 

One hand down. Then the other hand. One foot down. And the other foot. Over. And over. His arms tremble. The rough wood scratches at his hands, tears the skin of his palms and fingers. His legs shake. Thorns prick the soles of his feet, bricks scrape against his toes. One hand. One foot.

 

Phillip is most of the way down when he feels the slats in his hands start to splinter. He scrabbles for purchase, but his fingers slide off the dewy vines and slick wood and he plunges the remaining feet to the packed dirt, landing hard on his back.

 

It takes him precious moments to regain his breath, sucking in the cool, damp air. He tells his body to move, to roll over, to push up, but he only manages to get an arm up for a moment before it flops back down.

 

_It's too hard._

 

He wants to lay here for a while, in the darkness, let the breeze and the clouds, dark indigo scattered against a darker sky, carry him away. Wants to watch the cosmos twirl above him, _which one is Aldebaran again, PT,_ wants to rest in the cool gray earth until nothing but bones are left.

 

_It's too hard._

 

_It's not too hard,_ PT told him the first time he wore the red coat the older man meticulously stitched for him in the ring. _You know the moves. Focus on that first. Everything else will slide into place._

 

_It's not too hard,_ Anne told him the first time he took one of the lyra hoops in his hands. _You're strong enough to do this. And you even get to practice with a net. That's more than I had when I was learning._

 

_It's not too hard,_ Lettie told him the first time he was brave enough to ask her how it felt to walk down the street and be greeted by probing gazes and snide comments. _Just keep your eyes forward, always. Ain't nobody there has the right to tell you not to walk tall._

 

He gets his hands, his knees, his feet beneath him, pushes upright, and sets off, stumbling through the misty gloom, toward the brightest thing he knows.

 


	22. Chapter 22

 

Barnum feels like he's aged a decade in the past month, like he has been hollowed out by worry and regret, like his abiding concern for the things absent is weighing down every step in his days, dogging every dream in his nights.

 

He could blame it on his long hours at the circus, now that he is solely responsible for running the show. He could blame it on the weather, unusually cold and dreary for late spring in the city. He could even blame it, horror of horrors, on the fact that despite his best efforts he is indeed getting older, is approaching the age his father never made it past.

 

But, if this time has taught him anything, it is the cost of lying and obfuscating, to others but most of all to himself. He must acknowledge it's this business with Phillip, and his parents, and Gilpin, and how often he tries to imagine how the conversations between Phillip and Gilpin transpired, how deep they cut the younger man before he could escape.

 

If one meeting between his erstwhile apprentice and that calculating quack had reduced Phillip to the state he found him in at his apartment that night, he cannot fathom what more than a day at the doctor's tender mercies could have done.

 

Or, perhaps, he can venture a guess, based on every wretched thing that's happened since. He still doesn't know if he should listen to Charity and give Phillip more time, or if he should heed the voice inside his head that is screaming at him to find Phillip and drag him out of whatever dark hole he's dug himself into.

 

And anyways, he's not sure how much longer he can hold the rest of the circus troupe back, at what point Lettie and Anne and Charles will simply go find Phillip themselves. Barnum knows it needs to be him, though. He's the only one who has some understanding of what happened to Phillip, though he will now admit that understanding is woefully inadequate.

 

He's made too many mistakes lately, and they trail behind him like a shroud.

 

But then he returns home one day from a meeting with the accounts manager at the bank, and perhaps he's made one less mistake than he thought. He comes around the corner, and there's Phillip, sitting on the top step of his stoop.

 

The sight makes him think of that other night not as long ago as it seems, when he'd dashed through his house in a panic, finally found Phillip on those stairs, exhausted and abused and adrift.

 

And, he thinks as he comes closer and gets a good look at the younger man, maybe not enough has changed.

 

“Hello,” Phillip says after a long moment.

 

“You're here,” Barnum replies, and falls silent. Phillip meets his eyes for a few seconds, then drops his gaze to his clasped hands.

 

“Can...may I come in?” Phillip asks politely.

 

“You have a key,” Barnum counters. Phillip says nothing. “Of course,” Barnum adds as he carefully picks his way past the younger man and opens the front door.

 

 _What are you doing here,_ he wants to say, but then again he'd been the one to give his partner a key, even if Phillip wouldn't use it. Phillip speaks before he can ask the question, anyway.

 

“I...” Phillip starts.

 

Barnum waits. When nothing further comes, he gestures to the stairs. “Why don't we go into the study?” The girls are at school, and Charity must be running errands, but he's fairly certain he doesn't want to risk any of them interrupting whatever conversation he and Phillip are about to have.

 

Phillip heads up the steps while Barnum takes the other man's black coat and hangs it up, sets his own burgundy jacket on the hook right beside it. _Never could convince you to add a little more color to your wardrobe, could I, Phillip?_ Somehow that seems like the least of his failings right now.

 

He ascends the staircase, closes the door behind him, offers Phillip a seat, and stands until the younger man eases himself down on the couch. Barnum sits down next to him, closer than is strictly necessary.

 

“You look like shit, kid,” he says. _Pot, kettle._ Phillip bows his head.

 

“What is it, Phillip?” He prompts when his partner doesn't respond.

 

“I...I'm sorry I missed Caroline's recital,” Phillip finally replies, voice a shade above a whisper.

 

Barnum almost laughs. _That's what you're worried about?_ It's a start. “That's fine, Phillip.”

 

“I told her I would be there. I should have kept my promise.”

 

“Yes, you should have. But she'll get over it.” _Faster than you will, at any rate._

 

Phillip says nothing, stares at his hands in his lap, and Barnum shifts in his seat. “You want to know something, Phillip?” The other man's head lifts a little, but he still doesn't meet Barnum's eyes. “I swear she has them at least once a week. You'll have plenty of opportunities to make it up to her.”

 

“But.” Phillip shakes his head. “I didn't miss it because I was busy. I missed it because I was _drunk._ ”

 

“She doesn't know that.”

 

“ _I_ do. So do you.” It's the loudest thing Phillip's said so far.

 

“You slipped up.” Barnum sighs. “And after everything that's happened, after all the bad decisions _I've_ made lately, I'm inclined to cut you some slack. Maybe you might want to do the same.”

 

Phillip sinks back into the cushions. “I don't think I'm very good at that, PT.”

 

“No, you aren't,” Barnum confirms. “But you could try.”

 

Phillip wraps his arms around himself, and Barnum thinks of him on the stoop that night again. Remembers how he felt at the idea that those doctors could have sliced into Phillip's head, excised the parts of him that make him _Phillip._ He has the briefest flash of where that might have led, to his partner endlessly trapped in torpor, house-bound and mute for the rest of his days.

 

“Christ, Phillip,” he chokes out and throws an arm around the younger man's shoulders. He nearly sings when Phillip doesn't shrug it off, leans towards him ever so slightly instead.

 

“PT, I don't...I don't even know where to start.”

 

“We've got time,” Barnum soothes.

 

“I couldn't stay here.”

 

“And I wasn't going to make you, really. I didn't. But...why?”

 

“I wasn't...I can't be...I can't always sit at the table and smile, laugh at every joke. I can't always be the person I should.” Phillip's voice wavers on that last word, far more than it ought to.

 

Barnum huffs, close to relieved. “You just have to be you. You don't have to smile if you don't want to. You don't even have to come to the table if you can't. Jesus, Phillip, I'm not going to kick you to the curb if you're sad some of the time, if you can't always make polite conversation.”

 

“I...I know that,” Phillip replies.

 

“Good.” Barnum tugs him a little closer. And he doesn't want to spoil the moment, but he knows there's another issue he should raise.

 

 _Have you simply ignored the problems, hoping they would disappear on their own_?

 

Maybe. He has to do better, this time.

 

“I shouldn't have pressed you the way I did, Phillip. Or at least, maybe I should have pressed you on other things. But trying to control you, telling you what to do, especially after what you've been through...it was inexcusable, and I'm sorry.”

 

Phillip tilts his head in until it's almost grazing Barnum's shoulder, and Barnum lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

 

“I think I understand where you were coming from. You were right about a lot of things, you know.” Phillip's forgiveness mends one of Barnum's ragged edges, smooths down one of his sharp points. Still, he needs to see this through.

 

“I had good intentions. But I never should have read your letter, or gone to see Gilpin without asking you first.”

 

“What did...” Phillip hesitates. “What did he tell you?”

 

 _That I keep failing the people I love._ “Nothing good, Phillip.”

 

“But it bothers you, whatever it was.” Phillip's no fool, even when he's so deep in his own misery he can barely see any light.

 

Barnum chuckles bitterly. “Yes. It was half-truths at best, most of it. But the parts that hit home...they really hit home.”

 

“I know,” Phillip replies. “I've been on the receiving end of his particular brand of logic.” And Barnum thinks then of Phillip, here beside him now, not too long ago thrashing in the hold of men twice his size and being dosed with bromides that made his body numb and his mind murky, being told over and over that the people he cared about most didn't care about him, and still finding the fortitude to climb out that window, stumble in the dark by himself for miles, refusing to lay down until he got to Barnum's home. To Barnum.

 

It makes him close his eyes, draw in a shaky breath.

 

“PT?” Phillip asks, and Barnum's eyes fly open at the worried note in his voice. He pulls Phillip closer then, until the younger man is sprawled against his side, head on Barnum's shoulder, and it feels like the biggest victory he's had in years.

 

“I'm still not sure entirely what he told you, Phillip. And you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But I don't want you to believe it. Do you?”

 

“What he said about you, about the circus? That I was wrong to join the show? Of course not. But some of the other things...” Phillip trails off.

 

“Other things?” Barnum asks tentatively, craning his head to get a better look at his partner's face.

 

Phillip's brow furrows, and his eyes grow distant. _Stay here with me, Phillip, just a little longer._

 

Thankfully, Phillip continues. “He said...he thought some of my...the way I think sometimes, why I drank so much...that it was because there was something wrong in my head...that it wasn't all my fault. That I'm...ill.”

 

“I...shit, Phillip.”

 

“You don't believe it.” And he can _feel_ Phillip start to collapse into himself.

 

“No, it's...but I never thought any of that was your _fault,_ Phillip.” Barnum pauses. “Did you?”

 

When Phillip doesn't respond, Barnum squeezes his shoulder tightly. _Why didn't I have this conversation with you ages ago?_

 

“Phillip. I wouldn't judge you if you broke your arm, or if you came down with a fever. What you're worried about...the things you're going through...I don't think it's too different from that. It's just harder to see, sometimes.”

 

“Oh,” Phillip says, voice wavering.

 

“And believe me, I know what it is to want to be something other than what you are. To think you need to be something else to be happy, to make the people you love happy. To think you need to be something else to _be_ loved, too.”

 

“Oh,” Phillip whispers again. “I don't think you need to be anything else, PT.” And now it's Barnum whose breath catches in his throat until he can't manage a response, who has to look away.

 

Neither of them speak again for so long Barnum wonders if Phillip's fallen asleep, but his partner still has more on his mind. “I shouldn't have said all those things to you. I shouldn't have left here without at least talking to you. Left at all. I'm...not. I'm still...” He swallows hard.

 

“So come back. Door's always open, you know that. And you have a key. You can come and go whenever you like.”

 

“Yeah,” Phillip murmurs tiredly into Barnum's shoulder.

 

Barnum watches his eyes close. “When was the last time you got a good night's sleep, Phillip?”

 

Phillip grimaces. “Not sure, really. Could ask you the same thing.”

 

Barnum chuckles, jostling Phillip's head, but he doesn't seem to mind. “I don't need sleep.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Phillip breathes.

 

“I can subsist solely on peanuts and coffee for _days.”_

 

Phillip's eyes open half-way. “Liar.”

 

“No, I simply have a flair for the dramatic and a predilection for the slightest bit of exaggeration.”

 

“Scoundrel,” Phillip mumbles.

 

“ _Showman,_ ” Barnum counters, and Phillip snorts softly against his neck. “Truly, though, Phillip, you need to rest.”

 

Phillip hums as his eyes flutter shut and his shoulders start to tremble. “I haven't been terribly successful with that lately.”

 

“A lot of things will look better after.” Barnum adds.

 

“Better.” Phillip's breath hitches. “That sounds nice.”

 

“You might start by laying down. In a bed.”

 

“I...I can't...” Phillip's voice breaks. Something in Barnum's chest breaks with it. “I'd rather stay here.”

 

“Alright then.” Barnum leans back against the high arm of the sofa, takes Phillip with him. He lets Phillip shake apart against him, traces slow patterns through Phillip's hair with one hand until he feels the younger man's breathing even out.

 

_We can make that work, too._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was probably the chapter you were all waiting to read. It's certainly the chapter I was waiting to post. I hope the wait was worth it.


	23. Chapter 23

Phillip doesn't know where he is for a moment when he first wakes up. He's getting awfully tired of that phenomenon.

 

But there's no sinister surprise waiting for him this time, no cold analysis of his psyche, no sharp needles, no locked door. There isn't even the deep, piercing throb in his head and the churning gut of an epic hangover. There's just the dull ache behind his eyes he knows by now is the product of weeks of exhaustion and grief.

 

And PT Barnum's stockinged feet, perched atop the coverlet right beside Phillip's hip, tapping along to a tune only the showman can hear. Phillip wonders where on earth the man can possibly find shoes large enough, then reminds himself that they do in fact work at a circus.

 

Phillip tilts his head a little to follow the long line of a lounging body up, and sees the owner of those feet intently reading a book he recognizes as his own. He must have left it here that morning when he'd fled before any of the Barnums were awake to stop him. Along with his sense and grace, apparently.

 

His movement catches Barnum's attention. The showman puts a finger down to mark his place and grins at Phillip.

 

“Good morning, sunshine! Well, afternoon, actually. I see you're back to your old habits.”

 

Phillip huffs. “Back? What makes you think I ever left them behind?”

 

The corners of Barnum's eyes crinkle. “Fair point.”

 

Phillip looks around the guest room, takes in the bright paintings and warm curtains. It's just as he left it, and in the daylight he can see a few items he left behind scattered about the room. No one moved them. That thought makes something flutter in his chest, so he clears his throat and considers something else.

 

“How did I get...” PT's smug smirk answers that question. “You carried me here. Down the stairs.”

 

Barnum nods and leans forward in his chair. “Indeed I did. You're lucky I didn't drop you, too.” PT wags a finger at him. “You must be getting heavier,” he notes gravely.

 

“You must be getting older,” Phillip counters.

 

Barnum scowls and mimes throwing the book at him. “Aren't you hilarious? But three times, that's your lifetime quota, Phillip. From now on you get to haul me around instead.”

 

Phillip snorts. “I think you and I are both well aware that would only end poorly for everyone involved.” He would try, though, if he had to. God, would he try.

 

He considers it further. “Of course, I suppose if I dropped you on your head a few times no one would notice the difference...”

 

That earns him a gentle heel in his stomach. “And what makes you think _I_ haven't been dropping _you_ all this time?”

 

“Fair point,” Phillip echoes.

 

“Ah, no.” Barnum shakes his head. “I'm quite certain Charity would have _my_ head if I did that. As would the girls.”

 

_Charity. The girls._

 

“Oh, right. Are they...ah...they know I'm here?” He asks to have something to say, though the answer is obvious.

 

“Yes. Helen and Caroline can't wait to accost you,” Barnum replies.

 

_Caroline._

 

Phillip flounders. “I...”

 

“When you're ready,” Barnum tells him. “Not a moment before.”

 

“Right...I...thank you.” And how will he ever explain to Caroline why he wasn't there that night? What has Barnum already told her? “I think...I'm not...”

 

“As I said, when you're ready.” Barnum tilts his head, looks Phillip up and down. “You'll keep, I suspect.”

 

“I'll make it up to her,” he promises. He hopes.

 

“I know you will,” Barnum says with absolute conviction, and it takes Phillip a minute to find his voice, his composure, a new topic.

 

“How are you liking it?” He gestures at the book in Barnum's lap, the showman having abandoned his place. It looked like he was pretty far into the novel. _How long was I asleep, anyway?_

 

“Oh, this? I've been meaning to get to it. And,” Barnum waves around the room, “figured I would stay here and read once I saw it on the table. Light's much better than in the study, you know.”

 

“Uh-huh.” Phillip lets the lie slide. “What do you think?”

 

Barnum picks up the book and idly flips through the pages. “You've read it before?”

 

“Yes.” He'd grabbed it from his apartment when he and Barnum had gone to pick up a few things, hoping the familiar words would drown out the others screaming through his head. He almost laughs at that naive belief, now.

 

“Ah,” Barnum says. He looks at the cover closely before raising his gaze. “Phillip, this is a _terrible_ book! Everyone _dies_ at the end!”

 

And Phillip bursts out laughing at that look on Barnum's face: the wide eyes and open mouth, that exaggerated horror, his wildly gesturing arms. He's surprised he still knows how.

 

Barnum joins him for a minute, guffaws turning to giggles turning to grins, and regards his partner with an expression so fond Phillip has to bite the inside of his lower lip to keep it from trembling.

 

“Now, there's a sound I missed,” Barnum tells him, voice husky and soft.

 

Phillip finally works through the lump in his throat. “I missed it too, PT.”

 

Barnum lets him lay there for a bit, soak up that feeling and savor that sensation, before he leans forward over his legs again. “And why does the protagonist abandon everything she has for this gentleman of hers? I can hardly find a single redeemable thing about him.”

 

“Well, it's because...” he pauses, wondering how far Barnum's gotten, and how PT can know the ending when he doesn't even know... “Wait. You're only half-way through?”

 

“I am.”

 

“Then how do you know everyone dies?” That might be a slight exaggeration. He's fairly certain the sister survives. Maybe. It's been a while.

 

“I read the end first, of course.”

 

“PT!” He protests. “You can't just read the...” And he has to stop again to laugh at Barnum's affronted expression, at how he should have absolutely expected his partner to do nothing less.

 

Barnum gives him a raised eyebrow and a wicked grin. “Sometimes it's nice to know where a journey will end before you even begin.” His smile softens. “We so rarely have the benefit of that knowledge outside the world of literature, you know.”

 

Phillip replies with a small smile of his own. “I know.”

 

Barnum leans back and clears his throat. “Alright, so how does Miss Farron end up in the manor house with a loaded revolver, exactly?”

 

Phillip lets out a put-upon sigh. “Well, if you'd actually _read_ the book, you would know...”

 

And they argue about respecting the narrative arc, if a translation can ever do an original work justice, and whether Miss Farron could possibly be as accurate with a firearm as she's made out to be, until the shadows in Phillip's room grow long across his bed and Barnum's feet, jabbing into Phillip's side every time the showman wants to make a particularly emphatic point, and all the things throughout the room that prove Phillip is home _,_ again.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a very late addition to the story, but at this point I desperately needed some fluffy banter, damnit! Maybe you did too.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting this chapter. I thought I was done with it, but I just kept scratching at it. I could probably keep doing that for weeks, but it's time to let this bird fly. At any rate, it's much longer than the other chapters, so hopefully your patience will be rewarded.

Phillip spends an impressive amount of the next week asleep, dozing in his room or on the sofa in the study, curled up like a tabby in a slant of late morning sun. He lays out on the rug in the parlour with Caroline and Helen a few times, and Barnum bangs his leg into a side table once when he has to veer sideways to avoid treading on their slumbering bodies. He's never been happier to nurse a bruised shin.

 

Summer sun starts to chase away spring rains, and Barnum grows accustomed to the novel experience of getting honest answers from Phillip when he asks how the younger man is feeling. Phillip has more good days than bad, thankfully. On the good days he'll help Helen with her school work, teach Caroline some French phrases to impress the other girls in her ballet class. He'll wash the dishes with Charity and roll his eyes at Barnum's exuberant ideas.

 

Even on the bad days he usually makes an appearance at meal times, though his voice is low and his smile slow, if it shows up at all. Barnum doesn't press him though, lets the younger man sort through his own thoughts. He'll show Phillip how to play Pinochle, ask him if he knows Faro. Barnum cheats relentlessly, of course, but Phillip never calls him on it. Maybe he's cheating too.

 

On the mercifully few really bad days, when Phillip doesn't come out for meals, Barnum shuffles through paperwork in the study and waits. Phillip appears after a while, asks if Barnum's heard back on that permit from the Mayor's Office, or found a new cook for the mess tent yet. Once or twice he says nothing, sits down next to Barnum on the sofa, presses his shoulder to the showman's, and watches blossoms fall from the dogwood outside the window. Barnum doesn't bother asking how he's feeling then.

 

Phillip never misses a recital. Barnum says he told Caroline that Phillip was sick that night. Phillip mutters that feels like a lie, but Barnum insists it isn't.

 

Phillip only has one _terrible_ day, and maybe Barnum's getting more perceptive in his old age, or he's finally being honest with himself about the things going on around him, because he sees it coming from a mile away. Phillip's been surly and short for days, if never outright rude or abrasive. And when Phillip starts telling him he's fine again when he clearly isn't, when even the girls can tell from the slump in his shoulders that he's not sleeping well, Barnum bites his tongue.

 

He waits until Phillip doesn't show at the breakfast table, or drop by the study. Barnum gets home from the circus in the late evening, and after Charity gives him a sad smile and shakes her head, he goes to Phillip's door and raps lightly, pushing through when he hears no response.

 

There's just enough light from the window and the door to the hall that Barnum can make out the younger man, lying on his stomach atop the coverlet with his face pressed into a pillow. He walks over, sits down on the mattress next to him.

 

“Missed you today,” Barnum tells him, without reproach.

 

“Yeah,” Phillip mumbles into his pillow.

 

“Thought I might sit here for a bit, if that's alright with you.” Phillip nods. Barnum waits, breathing lightly, listening to the faint sounds of Charity getting the girls ready for bed.

 

Phillip breaks the silence. “They held me down, you know.”

 

Barnum swallows the lump in his throat. “I know.”

 

“And they kept _grabbing_ me. And I couldn't _do_ anything about it. I couldn't get away.”

 

“I know,” he repeats. “You did get away, in the end.”

 

“And he shoved my face in the pillow and I couldn't _breathe_ , PT.”

 

“I'm sorry, Phillip.”

 

“I thought they might kill me. Not on purpose. But I...I couldn't _breathe_ and I couldn't get _out_ ,” Phillip gasps, and Barnum rests a hand between the younger man's shoulder blades, feels his lungs spasm full and then empty again.

 

“But you did. You made it. You did that,” he says softly.

 

“I wanted to get out so badly, told myself if I could get here everything would all be alright. And then...I thought it would be easier, when I did.”

 

Barnum sucks in a breath himself, has an apology on his lips before Phillip continues. “But it's...it's just been so _hard_ , PT.”

 

“I'm sorry,” Barnum finally rasps out. “I'm so sorry.”

 

“It's not your fault,” Phillip whispers.

 

Barnum leans closer, until he can see the faint lamplight reflecting in Phillip's eye. “It's not your fault either, Phillip.” Phillip's responding hum vibrates through Barnum's fingers.

 

“My parents were there, when the doctors came for me,” Phillip tells him after another pause.

 

Barnum's brain stalls, but he manages to keep his fingers flat, his palm light on Phillip's back. “They were?”

 

“They knew what was going to happen,” Phillip says. “My mother...she seemed upset. But my father...he sat there and watched. Couldn't be bothered to stop eating his dessert.”

 

Barnum struggles to find the right words, doesn't think 'I'm sorry' is enough, knows 'I wish I could have stopped them' isn't what Phillip needs to hear, however true it may be, and he will never say 'You shouldn't have gone.' It's far too cruel, and he knows Phillip feels the same way.

 

“Your father is an asshole,” he finally settles on.

 

Phillip huffs under his hand. “I know.” He tilts his head, enough that Barnum can tell in the dim light Phillip is now looking at what's in front of him. “Thank you.”

 

Barnum stays there for quite some time after, hand rising and falling on Phillip's back with every breath.

 

* * *

 

Phillip fusses incessantly on their first trip back to the circus lot together, pulling at his cuffs, adjusting his waistcoat, taking off his hat to comb fingers through his immaculate hair. Barnum resists the urge to bat his hands down, though, just gives Phillip a steady smile when the younger man meets his eyes.

 

He's searching for the right words of reassurance when Lettie comes around one of the empty ticket booths. Phillip stills instantly, stares hard at the patch of dirt in front of her feet, looks like he's bracing for a blow. Lettie doesn't say anything as she approaches, and when she gets to Phillip she simply wraps strong, warm arms around him, holds him close for a minute.

 

Barnum studies the peeling paint on the booth – add taking care of that to the list of tasks he can't wait to foist on his partner – as Lettie whispers something in Phillip's ear. He turns back when she releases Phillip with a soft “Good to have you back, Carlyle.”

 

Lettie shifts her gaze to him, and it's his turn to brace himself for a well-deserved lecture – _you should have seen all this coming,_ _you should have gotten_ _him back sooner, you should have done more –_ but Lettie only pulls him down by the shoulders to kiss his cheek, beard tickling his clean-shaven jaw. “Good to have the both of you back,” she says, and Barnum can't summon a response before she walks off.

 

Barnum watches her depart, doesn't move until Phillip's by his side, tugging at his elbow. “Come on, PT, I want to make sure you haven't gotten it in your head to remodel the office while I've been gone, chopped up my desk for firewood like you're always threatening to.”

 

Barnum snorts. “It'd be doing you a favor, Phillip, if I did. That blasted thing is so...”

 

“Sensible?” Phillip supplies.

 

“ _Boring,_ ” Barnum corrects. Phillip laughs in response, and Barnum quiets the part of him that says he needs to trap that sound, cage it like some elusive bird he may never see again. He claps a hand to Phillip's shoulder to shake off the thought. “No, your desk is still there. Though I may have painted it. You like turquoise, right?”

 

Phillip laughs again, and this time Barnum doesn't think of cages, or keys, just how long it would actually take to paint Phillip's desk, and if he could convince Constantine to decorate it with his amazing designs some night after he and Phillip have left for the day.

 

(He can. He does.)

 

* * *

 

Phillip settles back into the office, back into his routine, though he doesn't go back in the ring. As much as Barnum burns to ask when he will, _if_ he will, he lets it go. At least Phillip is having lunch in the mess tent with Anne again, and going over new songs with Lettie, and mocking Charles and being mocked relentlessly in return. Everyone at the circus seems immeasurably pleased to have him back. Barnum isn't entirely sure what that says about _his_ leadership, but he's smart enough not to ask.

 

He's fairly certain Phillip doesn't tell the troupe everything. But they don't press him for the gory details, don't ogle him every time he comes in the room, don't whisper behind his back. Barnum figures most of them know what it is to endure something terrible, and why a man might want to hold the darker chapters of his story tightly to his chest. They've all been shunned and cut down in one way or another, and Phillip gets their empathy even if he doesn't share the specifics. Barnum gets it too, which he didn't expect, though when he thinks about it he realizes he shouldn't be surprised.

 

Barnum gently raises the topic of going to the authorities, again, of Phillip telling _someone_ about what his parents and the doctors did to him, but he sadly knows Phillip is right when the younger man says that would only invite more scrutiny of him, and the circus, and he doesn't want anyone else at the show to get caught up in a legal system that does far too little to protect the people it should.

 

More than once, Barnum considers enacting his own brand of justice, but Charity is correct when she tells him that won't make anything better, and everyone needs him _here_ right now, not in a jail cell.

 

Though Phillip is content to let it be, Barnum scans every new batch of mail with a kernel of anxiety in his gut, worried that Gilpin will send Phillip another missive, that he'll have to sit with Phillip and unpack every idea the doctor brought up again, help him extract the ideas with merit from the ones that he can only hope Phillip understands are absurd. Barnum will do it gladly, without hesitation, but for Phillip's sake he hopes it doesn't come to that.

 

So when they're in the office one Saturday after the matinee show, and Phillip stands up from his desk with a letter clenched in his trembling fingers, Barnum's stomach sinks down to his knees.

 

He wants to jump up, wants to rush over and demand answers, but he's working on himself, too. He sits and watches and waits for Phillip to make the first move.

 

And Phillip must be making some progress as well. Instead of stammering an excuse and fleeing, or shoving the paper under another stack and acting as though nothing had happened, he comes out from behind his desk, still staring at the letter, and takes a few steps toward Barnum.

 

“PT?” He says.

 

And Barnum can at last bolt to his feet, let loose his questions. “What is it, Phillip?”

 

Phillip's jaw works for a moment, and Barnum's hands clench. _Gilpin. Goddamn it._

 

“It's...” Phillip starts. “It's from my mother.”

 

_Oh._ That's a blow straight to Barnum's chest. “What? What did she say?”

 

“She says...she wants to meet me.”

 

_God no._ Barnum swallows hard. “She wants to meet with you?”

 

“Yes. To discuss what happened.” _What happened? How she lured you in, let those doctors grab you and drug you and lock you up like a damned animal?_

 

But Barnum's learning. “What do you want to do, Phillip?”

 

Phillip leans against Barnum's desk, fingers the edges of the letter. “I'm...not sure, PT.”

 

“Well, you don't have to decide right now. Does it say anything else?”

 

He thinks all the effort he's putting in, all the effort Phillip is putting in, on this long slog back to _trust,_ must be paying off when Phillip hands him the letter.

 

Barnum takes it carefully, gazes closely at Phillip's downturned face before he reads the note. It doesn't take him a minute. He reads it through a second time, studies the sparse phrasing and bland language.

 

“She wants to meet you at a cafe.” He almost laughs. “That's what you suggested...before...”

 

Phillip takes the letter back, stares at it again. “I know. Though I was hardly ready then to...” And how many of their sentences are going to end before they say what they really mean, again? Especially when Barnum has resolved to do better.

 

“It's your decision, Phillip. Not hers. Not mine. Whatever you want to do.”

 

And Phillip finally, _finally,_ meets his eyes. “What would you do, PT?”

 

_Shit._ He hadn't been expecting that. “I...I think I'd have a hard time meeting with her, in your position.” He considers it a little more. “But I would always wonder, if I didn't.”

 

They stand in silence until Barnum continues. “You know what I'd prefer you to do, Phillip. But this is entirely up to you. And you don't have to decide now, or anytime soon.”

 

Still, he hasn't quite answered Phillip's question. “I think it's a good idea to sleep on it, at least.” _If either of us even sleeps, tonight. Damn it. Have I taught you how to play Bésigue yet?_

 

Phillip nods. “I think you're right.” He sets the letter down on Barnum's desk and looks at the top form on the closest stack. “Can we go over that proposal from the rail car manufacturer now?”

 

_However you want to play it, Phillip._ “Of course. Have you seen the latest figures they sent over?”

 

* * *

 

“I want to meet with her, PT.” Phillip tells him one evening a few days later after Charity and the girls have left the dinner table and the remnants of the meal behind for the two of them to take care of. Charity has faith that Phillip, at least, will make sure everything gets washed and put away.

 

“Oh?” Barnum asks as blandly as he can.

 

Phillip gives him a knowing look. “I'm aware of how you feel about it. But you're right. If I don't speak to her...I'll always wonder.”

 

Barnum grimaces. “I've told you before you should know better than to listen to anything I tell you, Phillip.”

 

“And yet,” Phillip counters.

 

“And yet,” Barnum concedes.

 

“Besides,” Phillip adds, “you can blame Charity for this one.”

 

“Gladly,” Barnum replies. “Why?”

 

“Something she told me, a while ago.” Phillip scratches a nail against the worn tablecloth. It's more yellow than white at this point, full of old stains that Helen says look like a pride of lions, though Phillip swears he sees Charles on his horse in one of them. “About forgiving the people...about forgiveness.”

 

“You've forgiven your mother?” Barnum asks.

 

“No.” Phillip doesn't hesitate. “But maybe...someday...I'd like to try?”

 

Barnum reaches a hand over, fingers drumming on a coffee stain he thinks bears an uncanny resemblance to that taxidermied giraffe he'd bought so long ago. Phillip looks up at him. “Alright. Where are you meeting?”

 

“I'm going to suggest that cafe on Water Street. The one with the outdoor patio?”

 

“I know it,” Barnum replies. Phillip doesn't say anything then, just fidgets, and Barnum takes a gamble.

 

“Did you want me to come with you, Phillip?”

 

Phillip sighs, and some of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. “I...well, I'm not sure what she'll tell me if you're sitting there, PT. But...I still...if you...”

 

“I can wait outside,” Barnum offers. “Until you're finished.” _Until I'm sure you're going to make it out of there under your own power._

 

“I don't think she's going to try to do anything, now. Though...if you wouldn't mind...”

 

“Of course I don't mind, Phillip. I'm sure it'll be fine, but I'll be there.” And maybe part of him does want Mrs. Carlyle to try something, to bring along that goon from Gilpin's office, or, even better, come with _Mr._ Carlyle, to give him an excuse, _any_ excuse.

 

But then the grateful look on Phillip's face wipes any thought of violence, of revenge, from his mind. “Thank you, PT.”

 

“Anytime, Phillip.”

 

* * *

 

Barnum finds himself, on a sunny and pleasant afternoon, sitting on a bench beside Water Street, keenly observing the figures of Phillip and his mother on the patio across the road. There are less obvious places from which he could watch the cafe, spots where Mrs. Carlyle and whoever else might be there would never see him, but he wants his presence to be noticed. Wants to send a message, to anyone watching, that he's there. That he always will be.

 

At any rate, nothing does end up happening. Phillip and his mother talk for less than half an hour before Mrs. Carlyle gathers her parasol and departs the way she came. Phillip drops a few coins on the table before leaving himself, in the opposite direction.

 

Barnum follows him to a dim alley a few buildings over. “Well?” He asks as he approaches. “How did it go?”

 

Phillip stares out at the street. “It was fine,” he mumbles.

 

Barnum sighs. “Phillip,” he coaxes.

 

Phillip relents. “It was...I doubt they're going to try something like that again, at least. She doesn't seem to think it would be worth it.”

 

“What do you mean, 'worth it?'”

 

“Well, I've convinced them that I'm not leaving the circus, or going back to my old life.” Phillip shakes his head ruefully. “I'm sure I don't have to tell you that she is not particularly pleased with my insistence on that issue.”

 

“Her mistake,” Barnum says. But there's still something in Phillip's voice, in his bearing, that makes Barnum's jaw clench. “What is it, Phillip?”

 

Phillip turns to him then, meets Barnum's eyes, and God help him but his partner looks all of twelve years old in that moment.

 

“She was so _certain_ , PT. So completely _sure_. That what she and my father did was for the best. That it's what I needed. That it would make me _better_.”

 

“And now?” Barnum asks, though he knows the answer.

 

“She thinks I'm beyond help.” Phillip sniffs, blinks furiously. “She hopes someday I come back to my senses, because she doesn't think she can do anything for me now. And I tried, I tried to make her understand but I couldn't, no matter what I said and – ”

 

Barnum's breath catches in his throat. “Ah, damn, Phillip,” he interrupts and hooks a hand around the back of Phillip's neck to pull him in, catching the younger man's hat in his free hand as the embrace knocks it loose. “I'm sorry,” he murmurs into Phillip's hair.

 

“I know,” Phillip chokes out against his shoulder.

 

They stand for a few minutes in the shadows, Barnum's thumb rubbing at the nape of Phillip's neck. A few passersby stare in at them and Barnum meets their eyes, dares them to come closer. No one does.

 

When Phillip finally steps back he lets him, though he keeps his hand where it is. “You alright?” He asks, leaning down to get a better look at the younger man's face.

 

Phillip scrubs at his cheeks with one hand. “Not really, no,” he replies, and though Barnum can't like the answer he is pleased with his partner's honesty.

 

Barnum briefly tightens his grip before dropping his hand. “Yeah. Can't blame you.” Phillip smiles a little at that, still sniffling. “Now.” Barnum carefully replaces the hat on Phillip's head, taps its top twice. “What do you say we catch the early show at that place in the Bowery?”

 

“Murphy's?” Phillip asks in disbelief. “You mean the one that has the ladies who –”

 

“Not for _that,_ Phillip!” Barnum rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “What kind of crowd have _you_ fallen in with?” He asks, and gets an eye-roll in return. “No, I've heard they have a few new acts. Including a young woman who can swallow an entire sword up to the hilt.”

 

“Uh-huh...” Phillip replies.

 

“While juggling.”

 

“Alright...”

 

“Did I mention every one of her props is _on fire?_ ”

 

Phillip shakes his head. “Well, lead on, PT.”

 

But Barnum doesn't lead, doesn't let Phillip follow behind him, instead wraps an arm around his partner's shoulders as they walk side-by-side out of the dark, back into bright sunlight.

 


	25. Chapter 25

“Are you sure you're ready?” Barnum asks as he adjusts the buttons on Phillip's coat. Phillip thinks Barnum must have done that a dozen times by now. It's getting irritating.

 

“Yes, PT,” he says.

 

“Because if you aren't,” Barnum checks the hem of the younger man's cuffs for any loose threads, “you absolutely don't have to do this.”

 

Those hems are pristine, and they both know it. And Barnum's isn't saying anything he hasn't already told Phillip at least half a dozen times too. But maybe what Phillip's feeling isn't as much irritation as endearment.

 

“I know, PT,” he responds.

 

“And if at any point you change your mind,” Barnum straightens the already immaculate collar absentmindedly, “you let me know. I'll be ready.”

 

And maybe it's not just endearment. Maybe it's something else, something that digs deeper into his chest but leaves his heart a little lighter.

 

“I won't, PT,” Phillip says, repressing a smile, “but thank you.”

 

“Of course,” Barnum murmurs as he brushes invisible lint from Phillip's shoulders, and leaves his hands there afterwards. He sighs. “I didn't push you into this, did I?”

 

No, it's not irritation at all. He doesn't feel stifled by that genuine concern, or smothered by the uncertainty in Barnum's eyes, has no desire to shake off that grip. Maybe what he's feeling...

 

Phillip lets his grin out. “No, PT, you didn't. I want to do this.”

 

“Right.” Barnum nods, squeezes Phillip's shoulders, then releases his hold and moves to his desk. He picks up the cane and top hat there, hands them to Phillip with reverence. “You're going to be _sensational_.”

 

“I know.” He dons his hat, twirls his cane in a simple pattern Barnum taught him not long after he first joined the circus. That lightens Barnum's eyes, draws a smile across his lips.

 

And that look on Barnum's face, full of relief, and joy, and pride, and...well, he could call it by its name, but he doesn't need to anymore.

 

He hears Barnum following him out of the office, feels the other man's stare on him as they reach the backstage area of the big top. He turns a bit then, gives Barnum an exaggerated wink. Barnum laughs.

 

“Have a great show, Phillip,” Barnum calls out to him as he darts into the ring. He leaps up on to the central platform, spares a glance up to Anne, soaring through the air, watches Charles, whooping and wailing on his galloping horse, beams at the other oddities as they sing and dance and spin and cheer. For him.

 

He knows there are thousands of eyes on him in his red coat when he steps into the spotlight, and all around him are sets that belong to people he cares more about than he can say, but it's the warmth from the ones behind him, whose owner he owes everything to, that propel him ever forward.

 

He spreads his arms wide, cane in one hand, hat in the other. Right where he belongs.

 

_Ladies and Gentlemen!_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Thank you all for coming along on this ride. I wrote the first draft of this story fairly quickly, but revising and editing and posting were far more draining than I ever expected. Also far more enjoyable, thanks to all of you who took the time to comment or leave kudos. I really do treasure it all, so thank you thank you thank you for propelling me ever forward!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. I'll see you next time!


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